A Shadow So Great
by NorthernHarrier
Summary: How does one become the Hand of Noxus, whose actions would eventually send him to the infamous Institute of War? Nearly two decades before that fateful day he displayed his loyalty to his chosen candidate by beheading Keiran Darkwill- Darius was just a boy fighting to survive in a place that did not care for his childish dreams. [Ft. Swain & Draven. Rated M]
1. Prologue

******[**PROLOGUE]

_Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'_

_We are not now that strength which in old days_

_Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;_

_One equal temper of heroic hearts,_

_Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will_

_To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield._

**Ulysses (Alfred, Lord Tennyson)**

* * *

There was a white hair on his head again, right where the last one used to be- on his forehead, slightly above his right eyebrow. It was a single line of snow against a sea of charred ash. He had pulled out the one that came before in a sudden moment of vanity, but now, he felt that he had deserved the sign of old age.

It was not because he had grown enough in his mind to be called wise, no. There were other people in the world that deserved the honor. He did not. The white in his hair was not a sign of wisdom for him; it was a sign of his regret.

He was still young- only thirteen seasons old- but already he had an insistent little hair on his head that reflected how much he felt he had grown tired of the world, of how much he had hated his life enough that he wished himself to be old and gone. It was a great amount of self-loathing, to be sure, and some would say that it was a disease that every teenager went through in order to become a mature adult, but this young man, this boy of thirteen years _knew_ he deserved it. Unlike his peers, unlike those with imaginary slights, _he_ had enough accountability left in him to know that everything was his fault, and his obligation towards it ensured that his guilt would be substantial.

But there is always one who would say _Ah, you cannot measure guilt_, and they would be right. Guilt is immeasurable simply because it is unique. One cannot say that '_my guilt is greater than yours_'- simply because the amount of value one places on one's guilt is reliant on how much regret, how much sorrow and anger and nausea one feels. The simple fact that people _see_ things differently, that people _think_ differently, guarantees variance and confusion and perpetuates anarchy in the standard of human feelings and thought. After all, how much guilt should be _felt_? How much sorrow should one _have_?

But if there were a reliable measure for feelings then, he would be at the very peak- and it was all because of what happened to him three days ago- it was the singular event that would set everything in motion, the one moment of wholesale destruction that would result in the eradication of everything he loved and the creation of a void he would always seek to fill.

Thrust into fire and tempered by a callous world, he would turn into something like the greatest Demacian demon- an uncompromising, axe-wielding butcher- but that was not yet _now_.

_Now_… was different.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Well that was short for a return to writing. It'll get better tho. Sporadic updates as per usual. What I was trying for was to have an origin story that properly explains how Darius and Draven grew up the way they did- and maybe some more besides.

Please read and review, and I'm also not too certain with regards to the lore- I did my best to be realistic, but at the same time maintain the flavor that League has. If you have any corrections, please let me know.

* * *

**CHANGELOG:**

6/8/2013 - Story posted.

6/10/2013 - Corrected the timelines. Minor edits to Chapters 1 and 2.

6/13/2013 - Chapter 3 Posted, minor edits.

6/10/2013 - Chapter 4 posted.

6/28/2013 - Chapter 5 posted, chapter titles and poem snippets added, formatting changes made across all chapters.

7/04/2013 - Chapter 6 posted, minor edits.

7/10/2013 - Chapter 7 posted, minor edits.

7/18/2013 - Chapter 8 posted, minor edits to Prologue to improve flow, modified summary, new cover art.

7/19/2013 - Lore edits across all chapters.

7/22/2013 - Chapter 9 posted.

8/02/2013 - Monster update, Chapter 10 posted, minor edits.

08/04/2013 - Chapter 11 posted.

08/05/2013 - Chapter 12 posted.

08/08/2013 - Chapter 13 posted, very long rambling rant on magic/tech in general.

08/15/2013 - Chapter 14 posted, long faq.

10/10/2013 - HDD broke down, Chapter 15 posted, new cover uploaded.


	2. Like A Rock, Sink

******[**LIKE A ROCK, SINK**]**

_An old Italian was inside to wait on customers._

_As I was paying him I saw that he was sad._

_"You are sad," I said. "What is troubling you?"_

_"Yes," he said, "I am sad." Then he added_

_in the same monotone, not looking at me:_

_"My son left for the front today and I'll never see him again."_

_"Don't say that!" I said. "Of course, you will!"_

_"No," he answered. "I'll never see him again."_

**[During the Second World War . . .] (Charles Reznikoff)**

* * *

**ONE MONTH AGO...**

There was a boy counting rocks on the hill.

He was bent over in thought, his face all scrunched up. The rocks had sharp edges, as was the nature of volcanic rock, and would've cut a careless youth's hands to ribbons. But this boy was different. Still at the lip of adolescence, his hands were already calloused at the palm and at the thumb.

He handled the rocks easily. He would pick them up and run the tip of his finger against the jagged edges, testing the durability of his flesh against the cutting edge. If the stone made a mark against his skin, he would put it into a smaller pile. Failing that, the little thing was thrown over his shoulder, discarded.

He was not a scholar. If he was, the thickened skin would be on the third and first fingers. He was not a musician either, as his fingers were not long and elegant enough. They were about as squat and hardy as he was, which was to say that he lacked the dexterity and finesse required to play anything. He was thickly built for his age, at a time when the rest of his peers were still slowly filling out. He had unruly black hair that tended to stick out, a nose that was too sharp to be considered as a handsome feature at the age of twelve, a square jaw and a mouth seemingly set in a thin-lipped frown.

Compared to the rest of his features, however, his eyes had some light in them; holding in their depths some hint that he was not purely made of muscle and not completely stupid. A woodcutter's son didn't have much by the way of words, but he had the advantage of street-smarts, which in Noxus was about as valuable as intelligence itself- given the right place and the right time.

Certainly, counting rocks was not a very fruitful endeavor, nor was it very smart to do so, but it was to the boy. Once he had gathered a sizable pile of the sharpest rocks he could find, he gathered them all up in his worn-down shirt and went down the hill like a demented apple picker whose fruits lay inside an apron. He did not skip, because that was simply too silly to do so and he felt that there was no point in skipping when one would lose the rocks one had worked so hard to find.

He walked past rows of dead trees whose spindly fingers reached for the heavens, past the barren land where a few unlucky farmers were trying to make do. His sandal-clad feet hit the beaten road with flat thumps. Five hundred seconds brought him over the deadly moat that encircled the city-state and into one of the less prosperous wards. The massive granite skull that was the seat of Noxian High Command loomed over the gates, seemingly watching the boy and his strange burden.

He moved through the crowd easily. His patched-up clothes and drab colors blended in with everyone else's. It wasn't often that anyone with colorful clothing ran through the streets of Noxus, except maybe in the more expensive and prosperous Wards. It was not because everyone in Noxus had to wear dark colors, or had rules on dying cloth a shade of black. It was simply because color, or rather the creation of dye, was expensive in Noxus.

Unlike in Demacia, where coloring plants and their bright dyes were so easily taken from the surrounding areas, the aforementioned plants refused to grow in Noxus. It was as if the very land itself would not allow it. Whatever color the ancestors could manage to coax from the land was what the Noxians of today settled with: red was made from the corpses of insects raised on the trees outside; yellow was boiled from a root; blue, never as bright as Demacian blue, was created from the ground remnants of a shrub; boiled lichens created a deep green, and black was scraped from deep within the earth, and then mixed with pitch.

It was a sign of wealth then, to have so many colors on one's person, but red was always more prestigious for the simple reason that insect corpses were harder to gather and grind up than it was to simply mix ochre with pitch. The deeper the shade of red and the closer it was to the color of blood, the more the cloth and therefore the resulting clothing, was valued. It was for this same reason that redheads, particularly those from the house of Du Couteau, are often thought of as lucky or blessed within Noxus- but that is a story for another time.

The boy's leggy stride, which was quite awkward by his standards due to an incessant spring in his step that no amount of practice was going to remove, brought him up a ramp and through a gate into Emerald Ward, one of the more affluent areas in Noxus. Situated close to the famed Ivory Ward market and a stone's throw from the high-walled, private residences of several Noxian politicians, the Ward was ideal for those who sought to see the wealthy and influential members of High Command, but did not have enough money to know the aforementioned politicians personally. It was an excellent location for namedroppers and people who had links to the darker side of Noxus, but the boy didn't know that. Not yet at least.

Here, his plain clothing earned a couple of stares, but then again this was Emerald Ward. When one is surrounded by guardsmen who worked for particularly influential men, a boy and his odd burden are easily ignored. He squeezed himself past a gate, creeping through alleyway after alleyway until he came to a walled residence. Dried branches covered the cracked wall; the fence atop it was made of cast-iron.

The house itself was manned by scowling gargoyles and gaping faces that expelled water during the rains. The roof was made of deep purple slate, layered on top of each other like a pinecone. Candlelight emanated from the numerous glass windows, the latter also being a luxury in a place where most of the populace lived underground.

The boy stared up at the walls for a moment, perhaps considering that climbing was not an option where the fence could easily impale him. Instead, he skirted around the walls until he found what he was looking for: a postern gate, rusted and overwhelmed by black thorny bushes from years of disuse. With practiced ease, the burly teenager ducked under the branches, never making a sound where the thorns bit into his flesh. Bleeding in some places, he laid a hand on the gate and planted his feet on the ground, pulling at it with all his might.

Contrary to its appearance, the gate swung open easily. He had been here before, oiling the hinges and coaxing movement from metal long inert. So it was clear that he had planned_this_ far at least. Still holding his strange burden, he pushed his bulk past the small opening- a marvel, really- and landed in a fertilizer pile. Now, other people would've been bothered by that fact, because aside from the disgusting, gut-wrenching smell, the pile had maggot-ridden fruits and earthworms crawling this way and that. It did not bother the boy. He merely pulled a worm from his hair and set it down back into the soft earth.

He spread the rocks on the pile and took some time packing the sharp rocks in balls of moist earth. Once he had gathered a sizable amount, he looked up at a particular window, lifted his hand and then threw the sharpest rock in his arsenal that wasn't yet incorporated into a fertilizer missile.

Now, under normal circumstances, glass would be able to resist the missile. It was good Noxian glass, made from the black sand near the swamplands. Tempered right, it could resist an arrow or a bullet. However, this family was not that wealthy, and when they had the house built, the windows and its glass were the least of their worries. So when it was faced with a thrown, sharp volcanic rock, the glass was about as durable as paper. Needless to say, it broke, and the shards scattered everywhere.

Shouts emerged from the house. The boy was still in the fertilizer pile, holding onto the first of his disgusting missiles. When a head emerged at the windowsill, the boy squinted up at him. It was not until he saw blonde hair and a blue ribbon that he took aim and let loose. The pressed ball hit the blonde teenager right on the forehead. Decaying matter splattered everywhere, the sharp rock cut deep. The blonde let out a scream, his hand clapped to his bleeding face.

Other people came to the window now, and the boy fired away. If the sharp rocks didn't do their work, the decaying earth did. It wasn't long before he ran out of missiles. By then, the screaming had reached a fever-pitch in the house. The corner of the boy's thin lip quirked upward in a rare smile. He turned his back and would've escaped through the gate again, but at that moment, fate was not with him.

A hand closed on his collar and pulled him out of the heap. Disoriented, the boy's face settled into a snarl the moment he realized who had pulled him out. The blonde boy, his face bloody and his clothes stinking as much as his was, was screaming at him.

"You!" The blonde boy's fist, laden with a large ruby-studded ring, connected with his nose. There was a sharp crack and a river of red. The boy's teeth slipped, and he almost bit into his own tongue from the force. Shaking his head like a dog and raising his hands, he did his best to protect his face and head as the blows rained down.

The boy was used to being hit. It was a thing of life for someone less certain of their position in society. He stiffened his body and endured. The blonde boy was not used to giving punches. Soon enough, he screamed when he broke his own wrist on the black-haired youth's jaw.

The black-haired boy was covered in decaying leaves and dirt. As for war wounds, his nose was broken. He could taste his own blood on his tongue. Slowly, he lowered his hands, surveying his opponent. The blonde boy was still screaming at him, his hand in a disturbing angle. Tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes.

The black-haired boy drew his fist back and smashed the other child's face in.

"Tell me you don't deserve that," He sneered. It would've been an imposing, deciding statement- if only his voice didn't crack. Puberty was a bitch when one was trying to make an example of someone. "Go on."

"Fuck off. You're a whore's son, Darius." The blonde boy snapped. "And your fucking brother's a queer." His voice was also cracking, so it was almost comedic to listen to the both of them. They were two children trying to be adults, in a world where adults and children were about as similar as a bird was to a fish.

Darius spat in the blonde boy's eye, eliciting a scream. "**Fuck you**." He snarled out as he kicked the other boy in the groin for good measure. The other boy shrieked at a pitch too high for his voice as Darius jabbed a finger in the kid's direction. "If I fucking catch you talking shit about my family again, Adrian, I'm going to wipe the floor with your face and send your teeth to your own fucking father."

"Or else what?" Adrian, the youngest son of Maynard de Croix, managed to squeeze out a smile even though his entire frame shook with the shock of having his jewels kicked. Blood, tears and saliva pooled at the edges of his mouth- he made a disturbing sight. "You don't know _who_ or _what_ the hell you're dealing with. You don't know anything. You're just stupid street trash that can talk big and hit hard- fucking cannon fodder."

"I know exactly what _I'm_ dealing with," Darius shot back- the very picture of childish bravado with his puffed out chest and bloody knuckles. "I'm dealing with a worthless fifth son who can't bite worth shit. Whatever you've got, I'll take it. Whatever shit you can dream up, I'll fucking top it, so bring it on."

If Adrian could've turned a darker shade of puce from his rage, he would have. As it was, he let out a ferocious hiss as he launched himself at the heavier boy. In his free hand, he gripped the volcanic rock that Darius had thrown at his face.

Adrian moved quickly. He was too fast for Darius to anticipate where he had to be to avoid the blow. Suddenly, there was heat over his left eye, and then a rush of warmth over his cheeks. Darius staggered back and clapped a hand over his face, making a disgruntled noise. It was as if a mouse had just prodded a lion with a needle. An annoying blow, one that only delayed the inevitable beating for Adrian, but it was still a blow nonetheless.

Grinning victoriously, the white of his eyes and teeth disturbingly visible under the black dirt and blood that covered his face, Adrian gripped the bloody rock in his fist. "I almost feel sorry for you. I'll make you fucking **regret** saying that to me- that fucking family you're so proud of? That little piece-of-shit hole in the ground you call a home? Hold on to it as long as you can, because I'm going to-"

Deciding that the other boy had talked enough, Darius kicked the other child in the face. By now, there was a great noise outside the walls. The constables were at the gates. Giving the squirming form one last kick in the ribs, Darius turned tail and fled. His hand was still clapped over his bleeding brow as Adrian's howls of pain filled his ears.

Far off into the future, an older Darius would think on Adrian's words and curse his younger self for being too stupid to think, for not considering what he had just done. But that is not_now_.

Now was this: in a small culvert some distance away from the walled place where he beat Adrian de Croix's face in, Darius washed his face and gingerly probed at his broken nose. The bruises would heal, as they always did, but there was no way to hide the afternoon's latest acquisitions from his parents. At the very least, he didn't want to bother them with mending his nose, so Darius pulled out a wrapped up object from his pocket and set it on a nearby brick. It was a mirror- to be more precise, it was the shard of one.

It had come from a broken mirror he found a few weeks ago from a storm drain near Ivory Ward after a particularly nasty monsoon season. Despite having gone through hell, the mirror's faux gold frame was still beautiful to look at, and so he had given it to his mother so he could see her smile. He still kept the shard with him for two reasons: to look around corners with, and then to stab someone if they got on his bad side. He could've stabbed Adrian with the shard, but then again that would be cheating. The use of rocks was already a bit too cowardly for him, but then again, he had only planned to cause property damage and to stink up the other boy's bedroom with gobs of fertilizer.

_Still, it was nice,_ Darius reflected, _that I was able to pummel Adrian to bits._ He had planned on delivering his message of 'leave my family alone' by defacing Adrian's front yard through the clever use of dog excrement and some lamp oil, but beating the hell out of the other boy in his own yard was fine too- even if he did get chewed out in the process.

He used the mirror shard now to squint at his reflection, and to take stock of his wounds. He had never been handsome- his father was best described as 'doughty' and his mother, as much as he loved her, was about as plain as the wallpaper on the walls in the noble houses she served in- so he never felt that his facial features was his best asset. Even with that preconception, the face that stared back at him was absolutely mortifying. The yellow and purple bruises on his cheeks and jaw were beginning to make themselves known. His lip had split and his nose was a smashed mess, but it was the great jagged slash over his brow, narrowly missing his eye, which made him reel back from his own reflection.

"Stupid." Darius muttered to himself as he soaked his shirt in some rainwater and dabbed at his face. It was an offense against hygiene, but he was made of sterner stuff. The twelve year old repeated the mantra over and over, wincing each and every time he pressed too hard. He ran his tongue over his teeth and the inside of his mouth and made dissatisfied noises under his breath when he tasted his own blood.

"Stupid," He repeated to himself, though this time the words came out slurred and heavy from his swollen lip. He looked up at the sky, at the rapidly sinking sun, and cursed under his breath. He was late. People were expecting him back home, and he still hadn't gotten the goat's cheese his mother had wanted him to get earlier that day.

Cursing to himself again, he wrapped up the shard in cloth and jammed it into his pocket. He stood up shakily and stumbled off to where he knew the night market would be starting in less than an hour. Regardless of his wounds, he had only one thing in his mind, the object that required his utmost attention as of the moment: goat's cheese.

* * *

**Author's Note: **It's a slow start- but then again I wanted to show how Darius was _before_. He knows his strengths and he sticks to them, and he doesn't hesitate to use it on other people when they piss him off- regardless of who they are. Typical bruiser.


	3. No Light In The Dark

**[NO LIGHT IN THE DARK****]**

_"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near,_

_"You are wasting your strength with building here;_

_Your journey will end with the ending day,_

_You never again will pass this way;_

_You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide,_

_Why build this bridge at evening tide?"_

_The builder lifted his old gray head;_

_"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,_

_"There followed after me to-day_

_A youth whose feet must pass this way._

_This chasm that has been as naught to me_

_To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;_

_He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;_

_Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!"_

**The Bridge Builder (Will Allen Dromgoole)**

* * *

**THREE WEEKS LATER...**

Compared to the very first boy described in this entire dreary monologue, this next boy probably would have been a musician if the universe had been kinder: his mother loved to listen to music and encouraged it in her offspring, but their family hardly had enough money to send them to school, let alone enroll the artistic child into a conservatory. Perhaps, if he had been born in Demacia or if High Command had placed as much emphasis on the arts as it did to the military, maybe he would've become a wonderful pianist. As it was, the younger boy had to make do with what he had.

And he did not have much. Where his brother was powerfully built, like a compact bear, Draven seemed to be made of limbs. His lankier frame, while infinitely more flexible than his brother's immovable mass, was less inclined to withstand punishment. His father's blood still ran true in his unruly hair, sharp beak nose and square jaw, but the rest of him took after his mother: with her dark brown hair, smaller body and long, elegant limbs. Three years his brother's junior, his mind was still fluttering in the skies- dreaming of a day when he would be going on adventures to slay Demacian dragons or on expeditions to find fool's gold. That is to say, he smiled and laughed more often than his brother, and found joy in the smaller things. Life was that simple for him.

There was a smile on his face now; as he watched his father and older brother go over the niceties of splitting logs in the smallish space that served as their family room. He was seated on one of four chairs next to the dining table. Close by, his mother was preparing dinner in the little alcove she called her kitchen, the smoke of the cooking fire daintily creeping up the wall and into a small ventilation shaft above her head. Really, it was about as wide as she could spread her elbows, but when one made barely enough each day to feed two growing boys and a husband besides, one learned to tolerate cramped kitchens.

There was a room off to the side where the four of them shared two beds and one dresser. The walls were made of bare rock, as their residence was carved from the very earth itself, and bore no decorations except for a single massive battle-axe that was mounted over their parent's bed. It was about as wide as Darius' forearm, as long as Draven's leg and probably weighed more than the two siblings combined. At some point in time, the weapon would have been sharp enough to split hairs, but there was a great break on the axe head from where the boys' father had hacked off a Demacian's armored limbs, and time had whittled away at the rest of the cutting edge until it was not good for anything- except maybe as a reminder of times long gone.

The notched battle-axe belonged to their father Hystaspes, veteran of a Rune War and a distinguished man who fought in numerous engagements, even making the ultimate sacrifice by giving his leg to secure a Noxian victory. In some circles, he could've been considered as handsome when he was younger, but now his face was too scarred to be considered anything but hideous. His black beard, as ragged and unkempt as the hair underneath the cloth skull cap he wore, hid the worst of his disfigurement. He was broad-shouldered, tightly packed with muscle and somewhat hunched over thanks to his previous military service, and walked lopsidedly due to his wooden leg. Despite his infirmity, he gave off a certain air- that of someone who didn't care for how other people perceived him, so long as other people did not directly offend him.

Compared to the aristocratic ladies of Noxus, their mother was not physically attractive, but she was not exceedingly ugly either. Athenais had close-set eyes, a small nose and pert lips. She was not too tall, nor was she too short. Like her youngest, she had long limbs and a lithe frame- even after two children and some twenty years of marriage. There are only a few words to properly define someone like her, with such a plain face and average height and build. If one did not specifically try to find her, one would forget her. The best way to properly describe Athenais, if one asked the boys, simply was '_mother'_. She was the very embodiment of the word, if that made any sense at all.

There was the question of their mother's military service, of course. Conscription was the rule in the city-state, and even women were not an exception. There was a time when Darius had worked the courage to ask her what she had done before she had met their father. Unlike Hystaspes, who regaled his firstborn with battle stories and displayed every war wound for the child's benefit, she chose instead to smile down at her eldest, and to silence his question by patting his cheek with one hand and telling him to check on his new baby brother. Even after Draven had grown up a bit- moving from cloth diapers to hand-me-down britches-she had never said much about her service to the state. When the children had gotten too insistent, their father mentioned offhandedly that she had more guts than he ever did.

Needless to say, when one's parents are so keen on keeping something a secret, one should generally obey. The boys never asked again.

The two of them made an odd pair now: the woman who could have been beautiful and the man who would never be physically whole. It was oddly appropriate, considering what sort of people their two children would grow into. After time, a Rune War and two children had their way with them, somehow, Hystaspes and Athenais had managed and endured- and it was a relationship their offspring would envy to the end of their days.

His father and brother's discussion fading into unneeded noise, Draven's eyes wandered over to where the great black bearskin rug would've been on the floor if his parents had never sold it. Darius still wistfully talked about it at times, and the younger sibling had been regaled with many a tale of the times that his brother used to wrap himself in it like an Ionian spring roll. Needless to say, the rug had been his brother's favorite thing, one of many that they had to let go when he had been born.

For all its starkness now, the dwelling had been better decorated once. His father had his medals and commendations hanging on the walls, and his mother even had a painting or two of beautiful imaginary landscapes. When their mother had learned that she was pregnant again, however, she had coaxed her husband to part with his belongings. They had been breaking even with just the two of them, but a second child would put a strain on the family budget. When Draven was born on a wonderful spring morning, therefore, the luscious rug and the paintings were sold off.

One could only do so much before financial troubles began anew. When Draven was three, his father's medals were melted down and sold for scrap. The hard-earned commendations were bartered off to buy dried meat, soup base and lamp oil during a particularly nasty winter when the two siblings had a case of pneumonia. Darius had been working as an insect harvester and ochre miner since Draven's fifth birthday to augment their income, and had only recently moved to logging.

If one asked for his professional opinion, Hystaspes would say that more people in Noxus died from falling trees than from drowning in the moat. Contrary to popular belief, logging was not an easy occupation, as simple as the entire concept of cutting wood seemed. In order to become a successful woodcutter, there were countless things to remember: an escape path had to be planned out and created, lest the tree one wanted to topple fell instead on oneself; the notch that would direct the tree's fall had to be placed correctly, with thought given to the degree that the tree was leaning; bucking the tree, or cutting it up into smaller pieces, required much thought because cutting too much or too little would waste valuable wood.

"Here, you set it up like so," Hystaspes stated. He borrowed a log from where it had been stacked up with the rest of the firewood and had it stand up on the floor. The wood had been split already, and it was only a matter of imagination to pretend that the log was still whole. "If you bucked it right, you should be able to get it up on its' end like so. If it's got a knot in it, you don't split it. Sharpen your axe to make a clean break when you split. You follow?"

Darius bobbed his head. It had been three weeks since he had come into the dwelling grasping a paper bag filled with goat cheese. Draven had seen him done stranger entrances- the day his brother found a yordle skull and wore it on his fist as he entered was particularly memorable- but that day was etched in his memory, and for all the right reasons.

At the time, the boys' father had described his eldest son's face as '_looking like crow bait_'. Draven had to agree- Darius' face had swollen so much that he could hardly eat anything for dinner that day, and then two days later his cuts became infected. Hystaspes ' firstborn then spent the worst part of the last two weeks in bed raving in a fever dream about how he was going to one day grow up to destroy everything and everyone with one stroke of his hand. Draven didn't believe him of course. It was simply the fever talking. After all, no one could be _that_ powerful.

Now for the most part, the small cuts and bruises had healed to faint little lines and splotches on his flesh but there was still a bandage wrapped over Darius' eye for the scar, and there was still a faint pinkish and sweaty sheen to his cheeks- hinting to a fever that still lurked underneath his skin.

_That scar,_ Draven thought, _looks really cool now that the rest of Bro's face doesn't look like ground up meat_.

"Green wood is harder to cut into, so forget it." Their father rumbled on as Darius gave nondescript nod after nod. "As for splitting- you have to throw a bit of your weight into it. Not from your arms though- you'll hurt yourself. Don't just throw yourself at it either- that's stupid. Stand with your legs apart a bit, raise the axe as far as you could go without missing, aim for the center and keep your arms straight like so. The trick is to have momentum, and if you get it right in one blow to avoid damaging the wood, good for you. If you don't get it right and you hack the poor thing to bits, it'll sell for less. You would've wasted more energy chopping away at it like a madman besides. So. Aim well, and don't hurt yourself. Pretty simple."

Utterly bored with the conversation, Draven idly swung his legs up and down, kicking at the nearest table leg in a fit of boredom. _Thump, thump, thump_- the noises went relatively unnoticed. He repeated the pattern six more times before Darius leveled a glare at him.

From the amount of annoyance in his good eye, Draven surmised that his older brother was peeved but not _too_ annoyed. That was fine with him. Ever the jester who enjoyed being the center of attention, Draven conspiratorially reached forward and tapped on the thin wood desk that served as their study and dining table, a smile on his lips and a joke ready on his tongue if they wanted to talk to him.

As before, nobody noticed him except for his brother. Darius was giving him the Look now- the glower that usually accompanied a cuff to the head when his older brother was done with whatever it was he was doing. The death glare would've been super effective, if Dar's eye wasn't covered and if his hair had not been sticking in every single direction thanks to the bandage wrapped around his eye. Knocking out a nonsensical beat, it took maybe three minutes before their mother reached over and rapped Draven smartly over the knuckles with a ladle.

Sheepishly, the youngest son flashed his mother a gap-toothed smile and an innocent look. She exhaled softly and watched him with something like exasperation, a finger on her lips as she gestured to Darius and Hystaspes. Draven rolled his shoulders in a juvenile display of defiance, and then almost laughed when his mother stuck her tongue out at him.

The rare scene of idyllic life in Noxus was broken the moment someone rapped on their door. Interrupted from their in-depth logging talk, Hystaspes eyed the door as if his gaze would set it on fire. It was nine in the evening, and who would bother knocking on their door this late- even if they did live in Sub-Level 12? "Who is it?" He boomed.

"Maynard de Croix," a crisp voice said from the other side. Heavily accented, the words carried a threat that only Darius could perceive as of the moment. Not surprisingly, the eldest son stood up in alarm, sending the practice log flying to the side. He shook his head vehemently at his father, pleading with him silently to not answer the door, but Hystaspes was a man who was not easily swayed, and his firstborn's reaction had made him curious.

So the war veteran pushed himself off the floor with effort and walked to the doorway, his wooden leg rapping every odd step on the cold stone floor while Darius shook like a lamb that was being led to the slaughter. He was still staring at his father's back when his mother gave him a calming pat on the head and whispered out a request to move Draven to the bedroom for now.

Still terrified, but now reminded of his duty and unspoken pledge to never appear weak in front of his kid brother, Darius clamped down on his fear, bit his lip and scurried off to do his mother's bidding.

"Come on," Darius said as he pulled the nine year old from the chair. The lie did not pass easily from his tongue, but somehow, he managed. "Dad's got visitors."

"If it's _his_ visitor, why are _you_ acting weird?" Draven remarked flatly, in the typically shameless way of baby brothers to point out the _uncomfortably_ obvious.

"Because, reasons!" Darius snapped back. He didn't want to tell Draven about the entire episode with Adrian de Croix. He much preferred to let the younger one keep the modified lie he had fed him three weeks earlier- that he had found a yordle spy in Emerald Ward and had beaten it up in a fair fight.

Draven remained totally unconvinced, but this was a side of his brother he had never seen before. His brother, if one asked Draven's _very_ expert opinion, was panicking about _something_. But if this truly was a panicking Darius, something was going to happen that hadn't happened before.

In the future, when all was said and done, Draven would later do something rather drastic because his brother lied to him, but this Draven was still so young, curious and _utterly_ trusting in the one person who loomed bigger in his life than both his parents combined. He let himself be herded in the bedroom, and then obediently sat on the bed with a promise on his mind to not go outside and to stay quiet, like a good little boy.

Darius rushed back into the living room. Maynard de Croix looked much like his son- lanky build, blonde hair, blue eyes, hawksbill nose and wide mouth. He was equally pampered- his nails were clean and polished, his hair was brushed and tied back with a red ribbon. His cravat, held together with a gold-framed ruby pendant, was absolutely flawless. He wore knee-high black boots over white linen trousers and a red waistcoat over a white silk shirt. Over the entire ensemble, he wore a black coat festooned with gold braid and polished brass buttons. In his gloved hands he held a gold-handled cane made of ebony. In comparison, Darius, his father and his mother were all wearing simple homespun clothes in varying shades of brown and grey.

To a casual observer then, Maynard was a god amongst heathens, and he treated them all as such. He was currently locked in an argument with Hystaspes, and Darius caught the last segment of conversation as he reentered the room.

"-My son is dead from an infected cut given to him by _your_ spawn, and you expect _me_ to let him _live_?" The aristocrat gestured at Darius with his cane. "Why are you so surprised? Are you that stupid of a man to not ask where your tramp of a son spends his time?"

Darius felt mildly offended at the words. It was not _his_ fault that Adrian the weakling couldn't handle the fever that came with the cuts to his face, but- and he realized this very late, it _was_ his fault that the cuts were there in the first place. So, in the three weeks since he had scuffled with the other boy, he _had_ killed Adrian de Croix, even if it was through some bizarre accident of nature. Up until that point, he had never killed anyone before. He hadn't even gotten close to maiming anyone prior to that scuffle with Adrian de Croix. The first stirrings of fear came when he realized that Maynard de Croix was crying for _his_ blood.

Compared to his eldest son, who had stiffened like a corpse inflicted with rigor mortis, Hystaspes was still hale and shaking his head calmly. The man had been a legend on the battlefield in his time for being eerily calm under pressure. Now, faced with evidence that his firstborn had accidentally killed another child, he let no expression escape his features other than that of composed attention.

"I didn't mean to imply that," The woodcutter said. "We cannot pay the _wergild. _Blood is the only thing we have left, and and I want you to take mine."

Almost Freljordish in its barbarity, blood debts were an archaic option in a city-state that prided itself on having rule of law- but compensation in the form of death _had_ been the Noxian way for centuries. The practice of demanding monetary compensation, or _wergild_, had only emerged recently.

The aforementioned boy looked wildly at his father, wholesale panic flashing in his eyes. What was happening? Why was he volunteering himself? What about his mother? What about Draven? What about _him_? And then when he realized what his father was aiming to do, Darius' blood ran cold. He wanted to do something, _anything_ at all to stop his parents from sealing their fate, but if his parents were so set on it, nothing in the world was going to bend to the desires of a remorseful twelve year old boy.

"Would you take me instead?" His father asked again, seemingly oblivious to his son's reactions.

"I volunteer as well," Athenais piped up. Darius' shocked stare transferred to his mother. Like his father, she was nothing but calm. Her face showed no distress, her eyes gave off no fear. Her body was eerily still. She took her place next to her husband, and even had the gall to smile at Maynard de Croix's furious face.

"How dare you, you ground-dwelling peasants? To give me a choice between a cripple and a cheap whore?" Maynard de Croix said with a sneer. "If blood is the only thing you can offer me- very well! Give me _both_ your lives, or I will take one of your sons. I will **not** settle for less."

"Fine." Hystaspes retorted without hesitation. "When?" The war veteran continued, eyebrow cocked up and his voice still as dominant as it had ever been.

"Wha-" Maynard's mouth snapped open as his eyes widened. Evidently he hadn't expected such a candid response.

The whole conversation had shifted pace now: Hystaspes had taken Maynard on his own ground, _daring_ the cocky bastard across him to say the words that would change Darius for the rest of his life.

An older Darius looked back at this moment as his father's crowning achievement and greatest gift: Hystaspes had sacrificed his leg for Noxus, and now he was sacrificing himself and his wife to see to it that the life he had helped to create would live on. In any _universe_, in any _world_, in any _plane_ that obeyed the laws of space _and_ time- there is no greater act a father could ever do for his own son. By that same token, there is also no greater point in his life that Darius vehemently wished things had gone _differently_.

As for the younger Darius, the Darius of _now_, there were no words to describe how _he_ felt at the moment. If a picture could have been used instead to depict his mental turmoil, it would've been of black and red in streaks across blank canvas like blood from an arterial cut. He couldn't help but feel disgusted that Maynard had assumed Hystaspes would _beg for mercy_. He was proud that his father had not bent his head, but now he was deathly afraid for his parents, for his brother and for himself.

Fear paralyzes when left to fester. Darius couldn't speak, let alone move a finger. The fear of being _alone_ in the world, of being left to fend for himself and his brother without the bulwark of safety his parents had forged with their sacrifices, of being _swallowed_ by the world and spat out- all of it was more than his twelve-year old mind could bear. If he had been any more unstable, he would have burst out in hysterical laughter.

Maynard had been caught off guard by the veteran's frank response, but when he realized what he had within his reach, a smile had slid over his hawkish features. He looked quite like the predatory bird with the way he was staring at the three of them. Metaphorically readying his talons to snare his seemingly ignorant prey, the aristocrat's next query was disturbingly mundane, considering that he had just orphaned two boys with one statement: "How long would it take to get your affairs in order?"

"A month." Again, there was no hesitation in his father's words. In fact, if Darius had been paying more attention, if he had not been mentally screaming and holding back a tide of panic and guilt, it was almost as if his father was _enjoying_ his mortifying tirade with the younger noble. There was a cocky light in his eyes and a little tone in his voice that hinted he relished what he was doing as of the moment. "There isn't a lot."

"Agreed. I will have the papers sent tomorrow morning, and I will see you at the block in a month." Maynard said with a smirk. For him, he had achieved victory. In a month's time, his youngest son's ghost would see justice done, and then all would be right in the world.

For Darius, he had just watched his father sacrifice himself and their mother for _his_ sake. In a month's time, the state of Noxus, and by extension, that of Runeterra would be decided.

Something else was going to happen in a month as well, but it was taking its time to hit him fully. Darius had been deadened by fear. His thoughts plodded as slowly as a glacier crawled down the side of a mountain. The eventual realization of what was going to happen in a month hit him in the same way: a grinding, inexorable wave that washed over his body and left him frighteningly cold.

_I'm going to be an orphan on my birth day,_ Darius thought distantly.

He became vaguely aware of the fact that Maynard had left, and that his father had somehow been replaced by a man whose craggy features could've borrowed from a statue in the past second. Gone was the cocky confidence, the bulwark of tranquility he had adopted in the face of an outsider. His mother was eyeing him with concern, her brow furrowed with worry. The edge of his vision were too faint for him to properly focus on his brother- who was sneaking a look at the rest of the room and was wondering why everyone was so pale and wretched.

Haggard sobs emerged from his chest. His jaw locked tight, his teeth ground against each other. He screwed his eyes shut in a last-ditch attempt to stop himself, and commanded his body not to shake, because men did not cry.

But then again, he wasn't a man. Not yet.

He was just twelve, and he had just watched his father and mother volunteer to kill themselves in order to ensure his survival. It was all because of something that he had done in a fit of childish spite. His parents only had a month to live, to impart what knowledge and property there was left to give. There was no other person to blame in this entire incident except for himself. Everything could've been avoided if he had simply turned his head. His mother and father would still be alive. The scar would not be on his face. His brother would still be happy. If _only_ he had not lashed out at the other boy. If only he had not been so impulsive, if only-

His thoughts overwhelmed him. As much as he tried, twin trails of heat spilled from the corners of his eyes, rolled over his cheeks and coalesced down his neck.

* * *

**Author's Note:** It was a little strange writing about a crying Darius, but then again he's just twelve here. I also did my best to emphasize class disparity, and to show that there wasn't much one can do in the face of law backed with gold.

I tried to put across the idea that even if Noxus is a nation of strength, family is still important. I feel that Hystaspes and Athenais are your stereotypical Noxian parents: they both served in the military, but their work inevitably left them scarred- his father was handicapped and his mother undoubtedly saw and did some horrible things. Despite all of that, they try their hardest to be good parents to their children- not in the 'huggy, I love you' Demacian context.

Noxus is a nation that believes in strength and personal achievement after all: so I think that what is considered as good parenting in Noxus is to be a strong role model and to do your best to support or steer your child to greatness. Essentially then, what Hystaspes and Athenais are doing here is taking the flak for what Darius did- and that's fine for them because there's just no way to avoid the repercussion of Adrian de Croix's death. If they denied the charge, then it would show to Darius and Draven that they were being cowardly for not tackling the problem in the face- _that_ would be bad parenting.


	4. Angels Deserve To Die

**[ANGELS DESERVE TO DIE****]**

_Pain and suffering. Give me the strength_

_to bear it, to enter those places where the_

_great animals are caged. And we can live_

_at peace by their side. A bride to the burden_

_that no god imposes but knows we have the means_

_to sustain its force unto the end of our days._

_For that is what we are made for; for that_

_we are created. Until the dark hours are done._

**The Acts of Youth (John Weiners)**

* * *

**THREE DAYS BEFORE...**

There are some philosophers who theorize that time is a dimension intrinsic to the universe, where events occur in sequence independent of other dimensions: _there_ was the past, _here_ is the present and _that_ is the future. Others perceive time not as a dimension, but as a process of thought through which humans sequence events: there _was_ a past because there _is_ a present; there _will_ be a future because there _is_ a present. Time, therefore, is not measurable in a concrete sense. It is constantly moving, constantly changing. What _now_ is will be _then_, in the same way that what _now_ is will _be_.

If one's head is hurting, it would be easier to think of time as it _is_, and not as what white-haired men have defined it _as_, because those men have higher thought processes than an average human being. What is time to the average man then? The layman perceives time as something that is _lost_, as something that should be _saved_. Men rush through life because they fear to _waste_ time, thoroughly unaware of the singular truth that, that no matter how much they try, time will _always_ be wasted.

What is a month? On average, it is 4 weeks, 30 days, 730 hours, 43,829 minutes or 2,592,000 seconds. Out of those numbers, 210 minutes per week would be spent in the bathroom, resulting in 840 minutes lost on an unavoidable biological process. Therefore, there is no real way to _save_ time, unless one is a sorcerer named Zilean, in which case one exists outside of time and therefore there is no real point in debating on _what_ time is or _why_ it is called time- simply because one can see what _will_ be, what _should_ be and what _can_ be.

But- the entire point of the aforementioned paragraphs is not to ramble _about_ time or about the practicality of men being strapped to giant clocks. The point is to explain that no matter how much men try to _save_ time, to _treasure_ it and to make the most of it, it will _always_ be lost. Darius and Draven's parents only had one month left to live. No matter how many hours the two boys spent with them, in the end, the day of the execution drew near… and then there was no more _time_.

Executions in Noxus were not grand public events _yet_, because the person who would become the Glorious Executioner was still a little boy who didn't want his mother to die, but it _was_ prominent in society enough to be considered as something to watch if one was interested, and if one knew _who_ was going to be axed for the day. The House of de Croix was well-known within Noxus, as one of their ancestors had been a famed General who had come very close to bringing Demacia to its knees. In contrast, Darius and Draven's family was about as important as a fly within one's porridge. Many years later, the brothers' names would be on everyone's mind, but in this day and age, they were nothing. They did not even have a House name to call their own, although the brothers would be granted one in the future.

What were House names? It was a system that Imperiosus, the first Grand General of Noxus, created and encouraged; he had been of the opinion that Noxus should remember those who contributed to her prestige and forget those that did nothing but bring her down with their indolence. If one bore a House name, then, it meant that one's ancestor had done something worthy of remembrance in the annals of Noxian history.

To clarify: when a person is born in Demacia, one is given a name and then one is identified with the family one was born into. Garen was born into the Crownguard family, and so his name straightaway was Garen Crownguard. In Noxus, where fatality rates were significantly much higher and where accomplishments, influence and intelligence reached father than the circumstances behind one's birth, to be given the Demacian equivalent of a surname and to be identified with a family, or a House, was a _reward_, and not a right. When they were children, Darius and Draven belonged to no House, and thus were not important to anyone except their own parents.

The headsman's platform had been set up in the middle of Emerald Ward. It was a massive, wooden thing made of newly cut pine; the old one had been covered with so many bloodstains that it would've been imprudent to execute people on it in a place like Emerald Ward. It could have been mistaken for a theatre stage, if it was not for the fact that there was a bloodstained wooden block and a wicker basket set up in the center.

As stated before, public executions were a cultural mainstay in Noxus. For a nation so fixated on death and prestige, there were certain customs and traditions involving a death that would be seen by all. For one, it was considered as dishonorable to be decapitated by guillotine, and therefore only prisoners were killed by it. A worse punishment, reserved for traitors and conspirators, was to be drawn and quartered while one was alive or burnt at the stake. Therefore, the gift of having a swift death was only granted to those with privilege, such as noblemen or individuals of some repute. When the time for their death came, they were given leeway to be executed by a sword, or by their own weapon.

Darius' crime had been to kill a man's youngest son. The approximate punishment, if the _wergild_ had not been paid, was to torture him on a rack and then, after a long ceremonial monologue by Maynard on _why_ Darius was a homicidal cur, to run him under the guillotine. However, there was no guillotine for today's execution, as much as Maynard had tried to have one set up. Hystaspes and Athenais still had some influence left, and they managed to secure for themselves a _good_ death: the executioner of the day was none other than Urgot, the Headsman's Pride himself, and the weapon of choice was Hystaspes' own battle-axe, which had been taken off the wall and sharpened to a gleam especially for the occasion.

Hystaspes and his wife would die for his firstborn, but the war veteran had been of the opinion that there was no way in any existing hell he would be publically shamed by being executed with a guillotine. Only his treasured battle-axe would do, and only his oldest friend would be the one to perform the deed. The entire affair, which should have been somber and shameful if Maynard had gotten his way, gave off an oddly _personal_ feel. Many in Runeterra would be mortified by the domesticity of it, but Noxus was a nation of warriors who considered it an honor to be beheaded by their friends.

Of course, it was easy to romanticize the entire affair by adding some element of dignity to it, but the fact of the matter remained that Darius and Draven were to be orphaned today. They had prepared as much as they could. Darius had taken to it more readily than his brother had, although it had taken some time, and coaxing from his father.

It had happened one afternoon, when there had only been two weeks left to their month of life. The old warrior had been sitting near the dining table, polishing his ancient battered armor. Having previously thought that his father had sold it off, Darius had been surprised to see the full set.

It was a fearsome ensemble and appeared to have been custom-made. The enormous spiked pauldrons, battered from years of service and subsequent neglect, were padded with cracked black leather inside. The breastplate had been a work of art in its day, with its sharp but elegant lines making the impression of coarse wolf fur. The vambraces, couters and rerebraces, large and thick enough to fully protect his father's brawny arms, bore the embossed lines in the same style, ending in what had been razor sharp spikes. Strangely enough, his father did not have any mailed gauntlets- perhaps he had preferred to use leather gloves instead to have a better grip on his axe. The spiked wolf motif continued throughout the rest of the pieces: from the tasset, which would have protected his father's hips, to the cuisse, poleyns, greaves and sabatons that would have encased his father's legs and feet in steel. It was rather awe-inspiring for Darius, but the closed helmet was what had burnt itself into his memory: it was the warped, demonic face of a snarling wolf.

"Dar, Could you get my axe from the wall?" Hystaspes had asked.

"Would you need it?" Still awed by the ancient armor, the question had run out of Darius' mouth before he even realized it. _Of course_ his father wouldn't need his prized battle-axe where he was going. The executioner would probably just wrench it out of his father's twitching hands to sell for scrap once the grizzled man's head had rolled some distance away. When he imagined the entire scene, complete with the sound of the axe hitting flesh and the wet thump of a head rolling away, the imagery had made him want to vomit. Already green and sick to his stomach with what was to come; his pallid skin glistened with cold sweat.

Shamefaced, he had lowered his head as the guilt collapsed on top of his shoulders and made his lungs constrict. He wouldn't be weak. He wouldn't cry. It didn't help matters if he did. He had to think more, had to act less. The world was going to be colder and more difficult without his father to guide him through, without his mother to remind him to wait. It was just him and Draven now, and he had to be an example through the coming storm for someone who had never suffered in their entire life.

"Listen closely, boy." His father's voice then interrupted his musings. Darius had raised his head hesitantly.

What Hystaspes would say in the following hours would stay with Darius for the rest of his life.

"I didn't have long on this earth to teach you everything there was to living," The older man left his armor on the table and pulled his own axe from the wall mounting, drumming his fingers on the haft as he went on. "I would've liked to stay longer to see you go into the military like me, maybe marry a nice girl, have children of your own…"

His father made a strange noise- something between a sigh and a choke. Dark thoughts went through Darius' head again- maybe his father thought his own life was being wasted as well- but he forced himself to listen to the older man, to tune out the demented whispers that lurked at the edges of his mind.

"Hell, there are a lot of things that I still wanted to share with you. I've got a lot of anecdotes about making bad decisions- never go out drinking with Sion and Urgot for example- but I'm rambling again. Essentially, what's done has been done. There's just no way around it."

Somehow, Darius managed to mumble out an affirmative. He agreed, but his heart wasn't into anything at the moment. All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they had been before, but as his father had said, what had been done _had_ been done. He could mope all he wanted, but there wouldn't be any point to it. He couldn't afford to feel sorry for himself or for his brother anymore.

"Don't disrespect me, Dar." His father's voice rumbled off to his side. "Look at me."

Unsure of what to do, and wondering half-heartedly if his father was going to start beating him for indulging in his self-pity, Darius mustered what mental and emotional strength he had left. He lifted his head from where he had been staring morosely at the floor and looked straight into his father's eyes.

His father's eyes were bright and full of life underneath his marred flesh and bushy beard. It was almost as if the older man was just going to work for the day, but that was an idle fantasy. The reality was that his parents were going to their deaths in order to repay the blood debt he had accidentally created. The only other alternative was to present himself as _wergild_, but _that_ was not an option for Hystaspes and Athenais.

"You think it's tough now," His father put the axe on the table, his gaze still locked onto his son's. "But maybe it'll get easier. Maybe it'll get even harder. We just don't know. Life is strange that way. Just remember, Dar, as you get older everything starts to pile up. You've got all those things you did when you were younger, all the mistakes you never should've done if you only did so and so- we all have things like that, but I don't want you to dwell on them. You could lose a lot of time, just **thinking** about _what could have been,_ and not focus on **what is**. Do you understand?"

"No sir." Darius replied wretchedly. Even though he did understand somewhat, he didn't want their conversation to end. It was true that he had spent the last month of his parents' lives running his mind over his long-term plans as they readied for their execution, and it was true that his thoughts had turned more than once to how in the world he was going to fend for himself and his baby brother. Where was he going to get more money? How was he going to keep Draven in school? Was there a way to avoid destroying his baby brother's dreams? Should Draven work nights too? Was the military really the best option? If only he hadn't been stupid enough to-

"When a man makes a decision, he must learn to live with what he has done." Hystaspes tapped his finger on his firstborn's forehead once for each and every word he had said, as if sensing that his son was about to start thinking about alternate possibilities again. "That's the only thing that matters. Keep it in your heart and never forget it. You have to understand that what you did to the de Croix boy demanded an appropriate response from the law- and it's written in stone, son. It doesn't consider how old you are or how much you know of it. Breaking the law is breaking the law, and we must learn to live with our failures in the same way that we parade our successes."

Darius didn't reply. He didn't know what he could've said. Unable to return the man's fearless gaze, the twelve year old's eyes went back to the stone floor. His father crossed his arms over his chest, standing with his feet apart and towering over him.

"You're afraid." Hystaspes stated flatly.

Darius nodded. There was no point in lying, His father read him perfectly.

His father reached down and pulled his head up. "Of what?"

Darius's eyes swept over to the bedroom, where he knew Draven was sleeping. His dear baby brother, his mother's favorite- who did his hardest to make everyone laugh, who made himself the jester, who didn't know how the world worked, who trusted _everyone_-

"The future?" Hystaspes guessed. "Being alone with your brother?"

The twelve year old nodded. He was expecting his father to tell him that he was right, because it _was_ a big deal, but he blinked in surprise when Hystaspes gave a disgruntled snort.

"There is nothing to be afraid about," He said candidly. "It's the _future_. It will happen, even if you don't want it to happen, even if you're afraid of something that's going to happen."

Darius swallowed nervously.

There was only one way for his lesson to stick. Fed up with his son's attitude, Hystaspes slapped him on the cheek. It was strong enough to sting and to wake him up, but never enough to leave a massive handprint on his firstborn's face. "You can't feel sorry for yourself all the time, and you can't run from things that frighten you. That is **cowardice**. Never forget that cowardice _cripples_." The veteran growled out. "Time, and the rest of the world, won't wait for you to get over your fear. If you show that you're afraid, if you're unsure or if you're torn in indecision, the world will punish you for it. After all, life is not kind. It does not care. It will do everything it can to kill you, and Noxus is at the center of all of that. Take my words to heart, Dar: what you do not kill will slaughter you; what you do not bare your teeth at will rise against you; what you do not take it by the throat will trample you under its heel."

Rubbing his cheek ruefully, Darius realized what his father was trying to do. Hystaspes had never been particularly eloquent, even at home. For him to be talking so much, it meant that his father was in the mood to do so, and the older man would probably never speak to him in this manner again. Now then was the time to find answers.

"How you can just sit there and… polish your armor and act as if it's nothing?" Darius ventured slowly, bravely trying to ask what had always been on his mind for the past few weeks. "And the day before that, you were talking with Mother on how you were going to get your friend to act as executioner. How do you… deal with something like that?"

His father gave a full-bellied laugh, hinting at the gaming mood he had and at the gravity of the situation for him to be so candid and talkative. "Dar, everyone is going to die at some point. You've seen it happen in the streets. You've been watching the bodies float in the moat since you were about as high as my knee. You can't expect your parents to be invincible."

Darius bit his lip. He didn't, but then again children had their dreams.

"We're all going to die in the end; it's _how_ you die that ultimately matters." Hystaspes drummed his fingers on the tabletop in thought. Darius was about to ask what he was considering, when the older man decided to continue talking. "But _what_ is a good death? How will you know if your death was worthwhile? Is it better to die from illness or to die from old age?" The old warrior made a disgusted noise as he waved his cleaning cloth back and forth. "Neither will do. To die from illness is to admit weakness, and to die from old age is to settle into sloth… but dying from the sword, wielded by your oldest friend?"

His father's eyes gleamed in the firelight, the beginnings of a cocky smile tugging at his lip. "Aye. _That_ is a good death."

It is normally difficult for well-adjusted children to imagine a world that hates them with every fiber of its being, but that is what Hystaspes had said. As if sensing that he was becoming too dark for his son, he changed his tone.

"But the world is not entirely empty." Hystaspes mused out loud. "There are those like my comrades-in-arms, who took blows for me in the heat of battle more than once. The men who served in my unit still acknowledge me as their commander. There are others still who never doubted me. So there is brotherhood, loyalty and trust left in the world, but those examples are too common, too necessary in the military to go without…" He tapped his fingers on the table again before he found what he was looking for.

"Ah, love is a strong word, and it might be confusing for you because you're so young, but I would say that there is still some love in the world. Your mother and I did our best to teach you of it. What love we did not give to each other, we did our best to give you- but make no mistake, Dar. We gave you what was left. Time, and what we did with it, took the rest away."

It had not been as easy to temper the youngest child. Draven had never known hardship. Everything the family had done had been to ensure that his life would remain relatively untouched by grief. But now, there was no real way to tell the youngest child that it was time for him to grow up. The little lie Darius had given his brother had been debunked in front of him, but they hadn't seen fit to tell him the entire truth. Draven only knew this: that their family had attracted the ire of House de Croix, and that his parents now had to pay the blood price. One can say that '_one should not lie'_. After all, lying to a loved one is not easy. It takes a certain thickness of face to do so, and a level of believability in one's words.

At the same time, however, telling Draven the truth would have shattered him. His entire family had done their utmost best to ensure that his lot in life was almost always better than theirs, and for him to lose his parents to the simple fact that Darius could not control his own temper would have destroyed his relationship with his older brother completely. Eventually of course, the truth would out, but that is for later.

Willingly destroying his relationship with his younger brother was far from Darius' mind at the moment. Dressed in his best clothes, the eldest son was standing on the platform and watching the gathering crowd with a stony face. His father, clad in his old battle armor, stood to his right. Cradling his fearsome demon-faced helm under his arm, Hystaspes spoke with Urgot and Sion, his old military commander, in easy tones. The spike-laden metal had been through a rough time while it had been in storage, and still had the bangs and dents from the last time it had seen service. The cape he wore was full of holes and was no longer as red as it had been. Despite it all, the armor shone bright as if it was brand new.

Darius had felt his stomach turn when he first saw the two men who were his father's friends. Urgot was hobbling sedately on wooden legs and sporting scythe-blades for hands. He seemed to be made out of other people's body parts, as he had more stitches and staples on his discolored and sickly skin than anything Darius had ever seen. Sion was similarly disfigured, but he had not suffered any loss of limbs yet.

His mother, who had chosen to wear a simple white dress for the occasion, was standing off to the side. Draven was desperately clutching at her skirts, tears welling up in his eyes and threatening to fall down his cheeks. Darius would have been there as well, if Hystaspes had not talked to him all those weeks ago, but he wouldn't have been crying. He didn't have any more tears to give.

Still, he was not entirely emotionless, and it was with a heart that was steadily breaking underneath a forced mask that Darius listened in to their conversation.

"I don't want you to go," Draven mumbled through his tears. "Why do you have to go?"

"Not all decisions are ours to make, dear one," Athenais said soothingly as she lifted her son's face to meet hers. Ignoring the trail of runny mucus and tears, she rubbed noses with him fondly and pressed her lips to his forehead. "But what one can do towards an irrevocable fate is to face it with a smile."

Hystaspes, perhaps noticing that Draven was showing weakness in front of a gathering crowd, gestured to Darius to keep the crying boy away from prying eyes. Darius nodded his head and wordlessly picked his brother up.

Draven, it seemed, was catching on. His sobs gradually stopped as Darius carried him down the stairs and behind the headsman's platform, but the hiccups that followed still wracked his smaller frame and made it seem like he was still crying.

"Are you going to put me away again?" Draven asked his brother sadly.

"I'm just waiting for you to stop crying." Darius replied as he set his brother down on the wooden steps.

"I'm not crying." Draven reached forward and pulled on Darius' best shirt, using that to wipe his face and blow his nose. "You're mean."

Resigned to the fact that he probably was not going to be able to salvage his shirt, Darius patted his brother's back and retorted. "The world is mean."

Draven shook his head adamantly. "Mama said the world tries to be fair."

Darius thought about what his brother had said long and hard. He loved his mother, with all of his heart, and he knew that she did as well. She would not be dying for him if she didn't. Still, Draven was her favorite, and love might have clouded her words. _But,_ Darius realized, _mother is right. For now._

"If this is fairness, then we must have done something very wrong." He said softly.

Because he _did_ do something wrong.

And the world was simply being fair.

By the time the execution was scheduled to commence, there was a mob gathering at the platform. Darius had done his best to clean his brother's face and sent him off to Hystaspes. It was his turn to be with his mother now, but it seemed that he didn't have her full attention.

She was staring off at a distant house. It looked like all the other houses next to it- high walls, scowling gargoyle faces, purple slate roof and candlelit windows. There was a balcony on that particular house, and there was a red-haired man clad in a simple white shirt and black trousers standing in it, a child with the same fiery locks not older than the age of two cradled in his hands.

When he looked at his mother, Darius was shocked to find that there was a strange happiness in her eyes. He stared at her in askance, wondering if her sanity finally gave way in the face of her imminent demise. She saw her child gaping at her out of the corner of her eye and laughed, cocking her head slightly towards the red-haired man at his balcony.

"It is Commander du Couteau." His mother said to him.

Darius blinked. He glanced back at the man, even as his mother was speaking under her breath.

"You do me a great honor, my lord. It is more than a lowly agent could ever ask for." Though Darius was quite certain his mother's voice was too soft to even be heard beyond the headsman's platform, he could have sworn he saw the red-haired man smile- if it could have been called a smile. An almost imperceptible light ran through his eyes when she had spoken, though his facial expression never changed.

It took maybe three minutes for him to fully realize what had happened, and by then Darius had stiffened in shock at the acknowledgement. She had never said anything of her military service, but her words had made him realize what exactly it was. Commander du Couteau, she had said. But he had not come down to the platform to see her personally. He had stayed his distance, and they had communicated in their own secret way. He hadn't expected his mother to be a spy, but then again- this was Noxus, and the more he thought of it, the more it had made sense. She was not beautiful enough to be of note, nor was she ugly enough to be remembered. A person like her, whose plainness made her easy to forget, had made her into the very best infiltrator a man in the Intelligence Corps could ever ask for.

And the man, du Couteau, had been her superior.

In the future, Darius would find himself face to face with the man's daughter, and he would remember just who it was he saw in the balcony that day. He would keep the laughter bubbling silently in his chest, his eyes alight with a private joke.

The teenager's thoughts of his mother's secretive past were interrupted when Urgot shambled over to them. He had swapped out the blade implements on his hands for clamps- how else was he going to hold on to his father's battle-axe? "Maynard de Croix is here. It is time," Urgot growled out. With an awkward little twist of his waist that made it seem as if his stitches were going to burst due to his movements, he gestured towards the blood-stained block waiting for her.

His mother bent her head and enveloped him in a final embrace. Darius buried himself in her arms and tried to burn every inch of her into his memory.

"My darling boy, my light," She kissed him on the forehead as well. "I will tell what gods there are to smile down on you and your brother."

If he had been Draven, he would've clutched at her until the very end, but he was not.

The storm was still coming, and he needed to weather it for himself and for his brother.

So he let her go.

There was a very long speech by Maynard de Croix on how Darius had assaulted his son, but it mattered very little to Draven. Standing off to the side with his older brother, he looked quite small. His eyes were red and puffy from crying compared to Darius' calm gaze, and his sides shook with unwanted hiccups every now and then. As for his brother, Darius looked as if he had aged ninety years since the day he had come back with a paper bag full of goat cheese. The scar on his brow had only recently healed, so it was still visible and oddly awe-inspiring. There was also a small white hair on the top of his brother's head, and Draven made a mental note to tease him about it later.

Draven liked the fact there were so many people who were staring at him, drinking in his every move even if all he did was shift his weight from one foot to the other- even a black crow perched on top of a tree that seemed to take an unusual interest in the proceedings! But then again, this was his parents' execution, and he knew he had to feel sad.

But he wasn't- not as much as he should have. Not as much as he did before, when he first learned of the terrible price they had to pay. Maybe it was because he had spent a long month listening to his parents telling him what was going to happen. Maybe it was because his brother was replaced by some otherworldly being from the Void because the older boy wasn't even flinching or anything when Urgot sharpened their father's battle-axe on a stone wheel.

Draven _had_ flinched. It had been a nasty noise and it hurt his ears.

His mother was on the chopping block, and her head was angled towards him. She was smiling and then mouthed the word 'now'. Draven knew what to do. He had practiced so many times. He closed his eyes, as mother had instructed all those weeks ago, and counted to three. That was what his mother had said- she had said beheadings didn't last long.

There was a sound- like a butcher's knife severing pork limbs- and then a thumping noise like watermelons rolling into a wicker basket, and then an eerie silence.

Draven opened his eyes again as his brother stepped forward. He felt a stab of envy as the crowd shifted their eyes, and he didn't quite understand why.

"For the life of Adrian de Croix, Athenais paid," Darius said ceremonially to the crowd. He still managed to sound rather confident, given that his voice was still cracking. Slowly, almost reverently, Darius took the basket containing their mother's head.

Draven couldn't resist peeking. Briefly he stared down at the thing in his brother's hands, drinking in his mother's face. She was still wearing a serene smile, but there were faint tears at the edges of her eyes.

Something broke in him then, he wasn't sure what. Finally noticing what his brother was doing, Darius cocked his head and quickly covered her with a purple cloth as he transferred her to a nearby casket- to be burned on a funeral pyre.

"For the other half, I offer Hystaspes." Darius bellowed as he turned back to the crowd, putting the bloody wicker basket back where it had been. Their mother's body was nowhere to be seen.

His father was on the block now, his full battle regalia clanking on the wooden platform. Urgot raised his axe, and Draven closed his eyes again.

He didn't see the blade when it got stuck halfway through his father's neck, but he did feel hot fluid splatter onto his face. Flinching away as the smell of blood filled his nose, Draven felt his brother lay a hand on his shoulder- the older boy's grip was tight enough that it hurt.

There was a gurgling noise somewhere in front of him, and then a groan. Thinking that the executioner was done and wanting to see his father no matter what state he was in, Draven mustered what strength there was left in him to open his eyes, but Darius' hand quickly clapped over his face and enveloped him in darkness again- but there was blood on his brother's hand and it was hotter than his skin.

"Not yet," He heard his older brother say.

"What's happening, Bro?" Draven complained despite himself. "Why is it taking so long?"

"Dad was a warrior," Darius replied. "And warriors don't go down easily, even if they let their enemy walk all over them. You're just going to have to wait."

Draven made a frustrated noise under his breath- when did Dar start to be so stuffy anyway- and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Deprived of seeing the execution once again, he chose instead to listen hungrily to the sounds of the execution around him.

The noises that followed were familiar now. The hand over his eyes was pulled away, bringing the heat of his mother's lifeblood with it.

He snapped his eyes open, blinking furiously against the stickiness of his mother's drying blood. His eyes adjusted rapidly, but the blurry shapes didn't coalesce into anything solid until after Darius had already begun the ceremonial motions of receiving his father's head.

His father had been a hairy man with a great big beard- so all Draven could see was a tangle of black and bright red before Darius placed the head inside the casket as well.

"The price for my son's life has been paid," Maynard de Croix took the platform now. He gazed imperiously into the crowd. "Let it be a lesson to all- that blood will be answered with blood."

The onlookers watched as the solemn thirteen year old give a ceremonial bow towards the noble, regardless of the slippery blood that coated his palms. Unlike his younger brother, who had cried earlier and had flinched at the grinding axe, the older boy had held his parents' heads in his hands, and he had never wavered.

_He had blood like ice,_ an observer would later write in his journal,_ and a face of steel. Whoever that teenager was, he would become truly great._

* * *

**Author's Note: **That was a rollercoaster to write, I must say. Demacia takes pride on the values of honor and benevolence, so it would make sense for Noxus to have parallel values. In keeping with the concept that Noxus was where the strong succeeded and the weak perished, I figured that personal pride, the concept of a _good_ death and the warrior ethos (never give up, never surrender) fit very well in this context.


	5. All That You've Done

******[**ALL THAT YOU'VE DONE]

_We stand now in the place and limit of time_

_Where hardest knowledge is turning into dream,_

_And nightmares still contained in sleeping dark_

_Seem on the point of bringing into day_

_The sweating panic that starts the sleeper up._

_One or another nightmare may come true,_

_And what to do then? What in the world to do?_

**Magnitude (Howard Nemerov)**

* * *

**ONE YEAR LATER...**

A man was addressing his workers in a forest.

It would be generous to describe the area they were in as a 'forest'- a fire had raged through two days earlier. What had been a bustling insect farm had turned into an eerie, charred hell. Burnt tree limbs jutted vertically from the grey earth, buried in ash a foot deep, the metallic taste of the incoming spring rains heavy in the air. Once, there had been a billion insects alive on the trees, their bodies bulbous with the valuable pigment that would have made a very rich red. Now their bodies intermingled with the earth, too numerous to be properly distinguished from dirt and ash.

The man's workers were equally battered. Mostly teenagers whose faces and hands were streaked with dust and sweat that mixed into an unhealthy paste on their skin, their developing frames were plagued with constant hunger and exhaustion. Most of them had not slept in two days as their masters had wanted the fire quelled as soon as possible. The effort to save what remained of the farm showed in the dull light in the youths' eyes, in the grumbling of their stomachs and in the slack mouths hanging open, dry and airy with hunger and thirst.

"The fire took a quarter of the farm, resulting in a net loss of oh, fifty something gold. It's quite tragic-" The man was saying. With a rapidly receding hairline, he had evidently worked hard to save what few wisps of hair he had left. He looked to be more at home counting gold coins than addressing a drained workforce- his clothes were relatively new and neatly pressed, and his hands were more used to the toil of holding a quill pen and a ledger than they were picking through detritus and sharp wood for the rotund bodies of squirming insects. "You could've worked a bit harder to save that unlucky quarter… But ah, that's getting into places we don't need to be."

That none of them asked if they were going to be paid more for two days of dangerous work that had sapped at their energy and robbed them of sleep did not seem to bother them. Obviously, with the lack of sleep and food taking its toll, most of them were too drained to even consider what the other man had just said. The few that did understand what had just occurred made a hollow groan of complaint that seemed more appropriate for a reanimated corpse.

A grubby hand darted into the air. The man peered at the bearer and then glanced down at the little ledger in his hand. There was a hand-drawn portrait there, showing a strong-jawed young man with black hair that contained a single streak of grey, a sharp nose, prominent cheekbones and a jagged scar that crossed over his brow near his left eye. "Yes… Darius, was it?"

The youth in front of him gave a nod of assent. There was still a trace of the young man in the portrait, if one had cared to give him a good scrubbing down. A year since his parents' execution, his voice was starting to settle into the gravelly tone that everyone in Runeterra would know and fear. The growth spurt that resulted in the creation of massive giants from stunted saplings was already making him a full head taller than his peers- and he still had a good six years left to grow. He was still as stocky as ever, but when one is poor, one could not always eat what was best.

The clerk made a thoughtful noise. He had never seen the youth personally before the fire. Now, seeing Darius had cemented the stories he had already heard about him. It was a tale that defied convention, and it would grow more unbelievable as the years went by.

The story went as such; that the moment the fire had broken out, the foremen had decided to pull out all the workers and to leave the farm to the flames, relying on the aqueducts to provide a barrier and to prevent the fire from spreading to other parts of Noxus. It was a solid plan. The clerk had seen the request, had watched the glowing yellow-orange aura in the horizon spread like a second sun and had approved it without a second thought. Barely ten minutes later, a runner had come to him screaming about mutiny in the grounds: one of the workers had knocked out the foreman for his team, and had organized his ragtag band of youths into teams of four. It was a perfect time to rebel- after all; everyone's attention was on the fire.

The clerk had wondered then if he had to call in the city guard, and he had asked the messenger if he should, but then he was interrupted when another boy came into the room. This boy was covered in soot and sweat. He was plainly exhausted and winded from having run such a long way, but there was a light in his eyes that wouldn't be stamped out.

"It's not a mutiny sir!" The newest messenger had exclaimed immediately. "Darius wanted to build firebreaks sir, and the foreman didn't think he was being clever."

"Firebreaks?" The clerk had repeated, mystified.

"His father had been a woodcutter sir; he said he knew how to deal with forest fires." The boy had replied. "The foreman was being stubborn so there wasn't much he could do- he does send his regards sir."

"Firebreaks." The balding man had shaken his head. "Well, I don't know what in the world he's doing- and if he dies, it'll be his own fault… but if it would help the farm… tell him the House of de Montpelier rewards initiative, and to continue what he intended. We can't let it take the rest of the grounds."

With his blessing, the boys had skittered back to the distant farm, straight to the growing blaze.

The fire had raged for two days. In that span of time, the story of Darius punching the foreman in the face had been replaced with more concrete reports. Soon after sending the foreman to the hospice, he had organized the kids into teams for the fire: the youngsters he sent off for buckets of water, the oldest ones battled the blaze alongside him with shovels. After the fifth hour, he had somehow managed to rope in the rest of the working parties and had the remaining foremen taking orders from him. By nightfall, there had been a rotation- those who had worked a number of hours were cycled out to rest, while the fresher boys were sent to maintain the breaks.

In the future, when Darius was already a man with the General's mark on his shoulders, he would still hear tales of the boy who bathed in fire. It was hilarious, really, what would happen to words when they pass through too many ears.

As of now, however, the boy who would be General was currently ignoring the gnawing of his stomach and the heaviness of his eyes. Resisting the urge to simply keel over and go to sleep, he licked his cracked lips and spoke above the half-dead crowd. "Would we be getting an additional gold coin, sir? For stopping the fire?"

The clerk checked his ledger. Darius could tell from the face he made that something had gone wrong somewhere. Maybe they weren't getting paid. Maybe the House of de Montpelier had gone back on their word. He had been given assurances only a day before that their efforts wouldn't be in vain. He had chosen to work for this family purely because he had heard they acknowledged ingenuity.

"One gold piece," The clerk stated finally as he pushed his spectacles up the small bridge of his nose. "For all of you. But ah, Darius, was it? I must talk with you alone."

_Ah. I'm the problem then,_ Darius thought to himself darkly.

As the boys shambled off to their homes after two days of firefighting, the clerk took him to one side- far away from prying eyes and straining ears. Darius respectfully allowed him a few minutes to compose his words. There was no point in telling the old man to hurry up and just tell him what had gone wrong with his salary.

Like a hunted man, the clerk looked around him. Darius followed his glance. There was nothing alive in the burned wood except for the two of them. Not even animals had decided to come back yet. There was an inquisitive crow on a jagged branch to his right, but that was probably just an animal looking for scraps or baubles to take away.

After five minutes, the clerk finally began to speak. "You've worked very well," The old man looked at him regretfully. "And I would reward _you_. The de Montpeliers _are_ grateful. The gold was already set aside. You were to obtain three pieces, because of your quick thinking but ah, there was word from the House of de Croix only hours earlier…"

Darius resisted the urge to box the man on the ears. The clerk had done nothing wrong towards him- he was simply being the messenger. The trouble lay on someone else- someone who would not let the grudge rest. "… And a certain _someone_ told the de Montpeliers that I wasn't anything but trouble?"

"Regrettably so." The clerk said.

"Thank you for telling me." Darius said, even if he didn't feel like thanking the clerk at all.

"The House of de Montpelier thanks you for your service." The clerk returned his thanks with the same hollow platitude.

Darius left the burnt farm with a heavy cloud lurking over his shoulder. The monsoon season was coming in; he needed more food and lamp oil and Draven was growing too big for his clothes, even with his older brother sewing new ones every three months. One might think it silly that Darius, the bear-like man that he was, would be adept with a sewing kit, but sometimes it was a lot cheaper to simply alter, patch up or make one's own clothing rather than to buy new garments.

Still, there was only so much he could do with a needle and thread, especially since Draven seemed hell-bent on either growing out of or ruining his clothes entirely in street scuffles that were increasingly becoming the norm. Sewing wasn't the only skill Darius had to pick up in the year since their parents' death. He knew more or less how to put together a meal now from almost anything, and picked up a few medical skills from patching his brother up.

Draven was becoming more difficult to handle. The younger brother was entering his teenage years and their parents' execution had been the event that broke his previous concept of 'safety'. It seemed that House de Croix was everywhere in Noxus- Darius was constantly moving from job to job, and Draven was constantly being singled out by his richer age mates and bullied into oblivion. In retrospect, the abuse was inevitable- Darius had killed the youngest son of an influential family. They had his parents executed, and now they were trying to stomp him and his brother off the face of the earth by making life itself intolerable.

Darius had enough of his wits left in him to tolerate the nigh universal abuse with as much grace as a patient and murderous tiger carefully plotting the eventual demise of his abusive handlers, but Draven was turning into a rabid dog. One of these days, someone was going to put him down and there was nothing Darius would be able to do to save him from the guillotine if the time came.

Darius' weary feet took him to Sapphire Ward- one of the few middle-income areas within Noxus. There was plenty of opportunity here, if one had cared to look hard enough. The ward was primarily a center that mirrored the inhabitants' economic bracket: butchers' stalls interspersed with jeweler's stands, a shoe shiner called for customers from his humble box next to a luxury rug merchant. Darius pushed past the churning mob of people and into a side street.

If there was a god, he or she was watching him- there was a loudly snoring man clutching a bottle passed out inside the ditch to his right. After looking over his shoulder to check if anyone else had seen him, Darius searched his pockets and relieved him of his purse: two gold coins. He stared down at it and stuffed it into his pocket- it was barely enough, but he wasn't one to curse his own luck.

After toeing past an open sewer grate where a couple of flushers were working on removing a blockage and ducking underneath vibrant colored fabrics hanging outside the dyers, the fourteen year old finally arrived at a house squeezed into a narrow corridor. Kids of all ages darted in and out of the open door. Most of them looked like they needed a bath and some new clothes. Darius craned his head to scan the sea of ruddy faces and gap-toothed smiles, frowning when he didn't see the person he had left behind in the crèche hours earlier.

There were, and still are, many accusations about Noxus: on how only the strong would prevail and where the weak perished without anyone ever looking for them. The aforementioned adage is true, but in a nation of soldiers who could be called into active duty at any minute of any given day, the demand for crèches- or places where one could leave one's children to be looked after- were second only to that of the demand for living space. In true human form, there were the crèches for the privileged and wealthy, which were properly termed as 'boarding schools' or 'institutes of learning', that cost between one and five gold a day for food, clothing, board and education. At three copper a day, a crèche like the one Darius had left Draven in provided food, _if_ the child was on good terms with the matron, and a roof over the kids' heads.

Darius pushed past the wave of children and entered the house. It needed repair badly. The stone floor was loosely covered with threadbare rags. What part of the walls that were not covered water stained and peeling wallpaper was made of cracked stones and poorly mixed concrete. There were plenty of toys and children lying on the cold ground- rope ponies for the girls and clacking wooden dogs for the boys- that Darius had to step over before he arrived at the kitchen where the matron was mixing some thin watery gruel in a large pot.

She was the quintessential hag: there was a fat wart on her beaked nose. Her skin was pallid and covered in fine hairs. Her stringy white hair covered a rapidly balding head. Her teeth, what teeth she had left anyway, were yellow and rotten. No one knew what her name was- everyone just called her 'Matron'. Darius had found the crèche she ran after he and Draven had been caught out in a storm six months ago- they had just lost their home to Maynard de Croix's manipulations.

Finding that he couldn't manage Draven and work at the same time, he had managed to secure an agreement. The brothers lived with her now, sharing one rickety room and one cobwebbed dresser between them. Compared to their old dwelling, they had a roof over their heads, a changing sky outside and glass windows- even if Darius had to give her six copper twice a month, repair the house and make toys for the kids. Woodworking wasn't that far from logging after all.

"Matron," Darius greeted. "Have you seen my brother?"

She gave a grunt of acknowledgement and scratched at a sore on her arm. "Haven't seen the brat since you left this morning."

Darius chewed at his lip. "Ah. Alright then."

"You're three days behind on your fees." She reminded him not-too-gently. "The roof still has that hole in it and Gerard broke his toy pony."

"Money's hard. I'm sorry," Darius said in a contrite tone as he turned his back on her. Darius had never been one to apologize- in fact, he was more prone to smashing someone's face in for insulting his dead mother- but since it was only him and his brother now, he found that it was easier to say sorry and take an insult to the face than it was to stand his ground and get beaten up for it. He was not being submissive in any way- it simply was more practical. It was unfortunate that Draven was still too stubborn and headstrong to realize that his older brother's docility was only _temporary_.

"I'll work on the roof and the ah- toy before the rains." He added as he left.

"Keeping your brother around is hard too," Matron said nastily at his retreating back. "You probably should get him in line before someone decides to chop his head off."

_I'm too tired to deal with you and your threats today,_ Darius thought darkly to himself as he left the crèche. He had to find his idiot little brother before the kid did something he was going to regret.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As much as possible, I wanted to show how much Darius changed since his parents' death. If you read into it, you'll find he's gotten far more assertive, and that he tends to think a little too much on the repercussions of things. He takes insults to the face now and he doesn't react because he knows he can't afford to be stupid. I couldn't resist throwing in his leadership skills also, and his inevitable approach towards stupid behavior: get rid of the stupidity by any means necessary, and then reorganize the unit according to how he saw fit in order to produce better results. He is going to be a General after all, and even Darius has to start somewhere.


	6. Until I Collapse

******[**UNTIL I COLLAPSE]

_Shall we not shudder?—_

_Shall we not flee_

_Into the shelter, the dear thick shelter_

_Of the familiar_

_Propitious haze?_

_Sweet is it, sweet is it_

_To sleep in the coolness_

_Of snug unawareness._

_The dark hangs heavily_

_Over the eyes._

**Truth (Gwendolyn Brooks)**

* * *

**TWO HOURS LATER...**

When Darius had been helping the other boys fight the fire, he had tried to lead by example. He had been at the breaks for most of the two days, and never let himself have more than a few moments of snatched rest in the form of quick ten minute naps and a couple of sips of water and a piece of bread or two.

Now his actions were betraying him. There was no other way to properly describe the bone-weary yet hallucinatory feeling that lack of sleep was giving him- his eyelids had been so heavy he nearly upset a crystal merchant's delicately balanced display when he almost walked into it. His stomach had stopped groaning an hour ago- now it was eerily silent and he strangely felt full. He probably would've salivated when he passed by a restaurant and saw a boar being roasted on a spit, but then again he hadn't been drinking much and his mouth remained as dry as the dirt underneath his feet as he trundled on.

He could have gone back to the crèche and waited for Draven there. It would've been the best option considering that he was too tired to even remember where he was going, but then his brother was the kind of idiot whose actions either made people love his antics or filled them with an intense desire to kill him- it was highly unfortunate that the latter happened more often than the former, especially with Draven spitting venom at everyone who tried to ground him under their heels. Needless to say, Darius was worried to death, even if he was so utterly _fed-up_ with tolerating his younger brother's stupid habit of picking fights with everyone and _everything. _

In the distant future he would become such an imposing and frightening figure within Noxus that people would question his humanity, but a fourteen year old Darius was not totally heartless. As much as he wanted to throttle the brat _sometimes_, Draven was still his little brother and the only family he had left that was still relatively untouched by his faults. Leaving him alone would be to practically let Draven go off and get his head chopped off because the stupid kid thought it was a good idea to flip a finger at a politician's third cousin twice removed or some other nonsense. Darius was never going to just sit and wait at home- even if he was tired of walking around like some shambling nightmare horror and of working day in and day out in coal ditches and sewage tunnels and insect farms and dank ochre pits only to be booted out or deprived of pay by Maynard's eventual influence.

"Darius!" A voice pierced through his thoughts. The youth blinked and then looked around. A younger boy from his crew back at the insect farm was waving at him from behind a butcher's stall. Thomas was his name, and he had been picked on vigorously by the other kids because he was too big until Darius had put the other boys in their place. Evidently, he had found time to clean up, and was now wearing a bloodstained apron over his clothes.

To wit, in the world of insect farming, the best insects were the ones with bulbous abdomens filled with pigment. The only way for insects to become that grossly overweight was when the bugs managed to burrow close to the cores of trees. But of course, with size came vulnerability- with their exoskeletons stretched to the brim, the protection afforded by their chitin plates lessened. A bad blow on the trunk of a tree or a wrongly gauged pinch was going to make the expensive insects explode. If one was to have a successful insect farm then, one had to retrieve the insects without ruining them.

Most of the workers at Noxian insect farms, therefore, were small scrappers who would have become great Demacian violinists or Ionian artists because their long and flexible hands were perfect for playing complicated wooden instruments or holding calligraphy pens- even if the children themselves sometimes were not skilled enough to comprehend written orders. That lack of education was primarily why older boys like Darius were taken in, even if they were not good for insect farming at all- younger children naturally look up to older children. The more likeable or respectable the older child was, the easier it was to instruct the younger child to stop crying when they cut their hands on sharp bark.

Of course, the issue of having older children in insect farms would be over if the younger kids knew how to read and write, but education was a privilege in Noxus, not a right. Their father only knew how to read but had never felt the need to learn how to write, so it was fortunate that Darius and Draven had a mother that knew her letters. When the boys had figured it out, Athenais had pushed them into a 'school'- a rather generous word for a single room filled to the brim with children and one schoolmaster who prattled about Noxian military history. Since his parents' death, Darius had not been in a schoolroom- they did not have money for it. In the future, his unlearned status would put him at a significant disadvantage against his peers in the officer corps- but that would be much later. For now, his primary problem was finding his wayward sibling.

"Thomas," Darius managed a greeting halfway through an incoming yawn. "I thought you'd be home by now."

"Mama's been sick for a while." The other boy said sadly. "So I thought I'd work for Rurik. He's a good master- like you said."

Darius made a satisfied noise in his throat. Rurik had been one of his father's acquaintances, and Darius had worked for him in the first two months since the execution. In addition to his stall in Sapphire Ward, the man owned a pig farm as well, and that was where Darius had worked when he wasn't at the market hanging the meat or delivering freshly butchered joints to the homes of wealthy patrons. The smell of blood and the feel of a squealing pig underneath his hand as he slit its' throat had taken some getting used to- the white heat of the pig's lifeblood hadn't been any different from his parents'- but he had managed in the end. He would still be working for the man, if only-

"Does Rurik still take orders from the House of Liechtenstein?" Darius probed.

"Yes. Hans von Liechtenstein was even here earlier," Thomas replied slowly. "He picked up a suckling pig for House de Croix. I overheard him talking about the de Croix family having a celebration of sorts- I didn't catch what it was for."

The fourteen year old suppressed the murderous feelings that rose in his gut, but even the strength of his will couldn't hide the way his face twisted into a sharp frown at the news. Maynard was celebrating, and there was no doubt in the young man's mind as to what the celebrations were for- if not the fact that he had successfully deprived him of another job, perhaps he had done something to Draven-

"Are you alright?" Thomas asked, staring at him in concern.

"Just fine," Darius gritted out. He tried to push his thoughts back to his priorities and not in the man who was making life impossible to live. "Have you seen Draven?"

"Your younger brother? I haven't seen him," The butcher's apprentice said with a shrug.

_Maybe the idiot is dying somewhere._ His mind pitched in sardonically.

"If he comes by, will you tell him that I'm looking for him?" He said instead. As an afterthought, Darius gave the apprentice a look and then frowned at him. "And clean up your apron, you're going to scare Rurik's customers away."

"Certainly," Thomas said as he removed the offending article of clothing. "Don't worry about Draven. I'm sure your brother will turn up one of these days."

_Oh, he'll turn up- dead in the moat,_ Darius' thoughts finished for him.

"Yeah." Darius said woodenly. "Maybe when he's hungry."

"Maybe!" Thomas retorted cheerfully.

_Or maybe he's just eating suckling pig from Maynard's party._

His mind, the young man decided then, was being difficult. It was the lack of sleep talking, making him imagine things.

"I'll leave you to your work then." Darius told him.

"Alright," Blissfully oblivious of the older boy's thoughts and predicament, Thomas flashed him a smile as he pulled a new apron on as he placed the old one inside a nearby wash bucket. "I'll see you back at the farm?"

"Sure." Darius lied, and left the younger boy to his work.

As he walked he thought of what he had just done. He had good rapport with those boys, and with the House of de Montpelier. Still, the House of de Croix stood higher within Noxian social hierarchy- even if the Montpeliers wanted to keep him; there wasn't much they could do about it. He never would be able to work at the farm again in the same way he would never be able to work for Rurik again. Maynard de Croix was everywhere. It was almost a constant in his life: he would find work, he would be good at that work, and then Maynard would find _him_- and then the man would do everything in his power to ruin him-

His half-asleep wanderings nearly had him plowing into an apple cart. As it was, his considerable size- he didn't look like a fourteen year old, much less feel like one- had sent a whole bushel of apples tumbling down on the ground. Some of them were still safe on the dry cobbled stones, but the rest had rolled into a nearby ditch filled with murky rainwater.

"Hey!" The merchant snapped irritably. "You're paying for that!"

Darius glanced at the apples, bobbing merrily in the brown sea that was the ditch, and then glanced back at the merchant. Exhausted as he was, Darius knew that to outright curse at the man for being a fussy bitch was going to have things escalating quickly, so instead of saying what he actually wanted to say, which was '_are you fucking kidding me, go boil your head in a pot'_, he simply opted to reply in a dismissive tone: "Just wipe them down."

"I can't sell those now!" The merchant said as he pointed at the ditch. "No one in their right mind at Sapphire Ward is going to pay for those ruined apples. You're giving me one gold piece right now or else I'll call the guard."

Darius only had two gold pieces on him- the coins that he stole from the drunken sleeper earlier that day. To give one of his hard-earned coins to a man upset at a bushel of dirty apples was like paying five hundred gold coins for a piece of coal, but he didn't have much of a choice- if the man called the guard, he would be thrown into jail and he wouldn't be able to find Draven. As much as he didn't want to part with his money, he grudgingly dug out one coin and held it out to the merchant for inspection.

After chewing vigorously on the coin to determine if it was actual gold, the merchant left him to fish the fruits up by himself. As he was sitting on the cobbled stones drying the apples with his shirt, his drained mind vaguely reminded him that Draven's stomach was fussier than a cat's- he wouldn't be able to afford the medicine if his younger brother got sick from eating the apples.

_What am I going to do with a bushel of questionable apples that no one is probably going to eat?_ He wondered. Images of pummeling Draven to death with them looking better by the second, he slapped at his cheeks a few times to clear his head of fratricidal thoughts, sighed and then willed himself to look at what he _had_, and at what he _knew_.

_Obviously_, wandering around and hoping that he tripped into Draven was not helping in any way. In fact, if he kept it up he probably would smash his head into the crystal merchant's display and then he would have to spend the rest of his life in a jail cell because he didn't have enough gold on him to pay for anything. He had a bushel of apples that had recently fallen into a dirty ditch. Draven was still missing. He was tired, hungry and he wanted nothing more than to collapse in his creaky wooden bed and pull his straw pillow over his face with the hope that being deprived of oxygen was going to give him a sleep deep enough to ignore Matron's snores.

He needed help, and an idea came to him as he finished drying the last apple. He wasn't sure the person would even help him, but it wouldn't hurt to try. Pushing himself up from the ground, he gathered the apples into his shirt and walked on. He left the Ward quickly, nigh running through alleyways and squeezing past fences and gated corridors to one of the many entrances to the Underground.

Noxus had been founded on a granite mountain, but over the years the inhabitants had quickly discovered the caverns underneath. It did not take long for the quickly developing city to seize the miles of naturally formed tunnels for its own and eventually, a new society formed underneath the aristocratic surface: the Underground.

It was a world of darkness, artificial light, cutthroats and thieves, and it was a world where Darius and Draven had been born into. As bad as it was, as ruthless their world was around them, the Underground had been their home- before Maynard de Croix bought their residence from underneath them and forced them out into the streets above six months ago.

There had been many things to learn in the month that his parents remained alive. One of them had been about property, and about law. Darius had tried his best, but he could not remember everything, and one day a lawyer had come to their door and had informed them they had been breaking a property code or some such- he had not been certain enough to call the man false. Now they were living with a crone and an impossible number of children- but at least there was a sky outside that changed colors, a sun that gave off a real and warm light, a changing wind, and moon and stars that dotted the sky above.

In the Underground, there was no such thing. There were only the cold tunnel walls, the weak lamplight in the distance, the supporting wooden frames that helped shoulder the burden of the city above his head and the sickeningly sweet fungal smell of prolonged human habitation in a small, small place. There were ventilation shafts but hardly any fresh air ever reached the lowest levels.

It was fortunate that he would not have to go too far to get to the place where he had to be. Before Maynard's inevitable influence had removed him from his post, Darius had worked as a flusher in charge of cleaning out blockages. It was good work despite the smell and the environment he operated in, because people often lost the silliest and most valuable things to storm drains and sewer gratings. He had found more than the odd gold piece in the murk. A few months into the job, he had been sent to a particular place to see what was causing a decrease in the flow of the sewage pipes- and instead of finding a clump of vegetation, cloth and human excrement as he had expected, he had found a little settlement next to a blocked pipe, and a bone-thin boy with eyes too big for his small face clutching a stone-shard knife in his skinny hands. The kid had lashed out without warning, and had given him a fierce gash on his hand, but in the end Darius had won the scuffle by capturing both the boy's pencil-thin wrists in one hand.

He would have hauled the child off to the guardsmen because settling next to pipes and blocking them off was illegal- but then again there was something about the child that reminded him of his little brother. Maybe it was the hungry stare, the little lick of the lips whenever he saw something nice that he wanted to have. Maybe it was the hair, or the self-indulgent screaming and pitiful threats- Darius didn't know. He had let him off by boxing him on the ears instead. Over the course of his work through the Underground, he had come to know the child's name, and where the little knife-holding shadow tended to mark his 'territory'. He also knew that the kid was partial to apples- several of the workers who had also worked for an apple farm had been mugged often enough for the incidents to not be a coincidence.

He hoped that the boy was still where he had found him the last time he had seen him over a month ago- at a place in the tunnels that had a ladder leading up to a sewer cover on one side, a locked iron door leading to the rest of the Noxian sewer system and a ramp leading down to the overpopulated Bronze Ward- the Underground's equivalent of the aboveground Ivory Ward. It was the prime location for a mugger and a thief- there were plenty of escape routes and a constant source of income nearby.

Darius took one apple from the bunch and put the rest behind a nearby support beam. He then positioned himself next to a hatch on the floor about as big as a small man-it was one of many that led to a small room with a sewage pipe that could be opened to check the flow of sewage out of the city. This particular one was grimy and seemingly overwhelmed by rust- the complete opposite of a well-used and regularly inspected sewer node. Dirtied apple in hand, Darius reached down and tapped on the corroded surface with his knuckles.

The only thing he heard in the tunnels was his own breathing. Darius laid the apple down near the hatch and moved away. An eternity seemed to pass before the hatch screeched open slowly. A head emerged- messy black hair, eyes too bright for his grubby mud-covered face. His clothes were still the same- ripped, somewhat mended together awkwardly and stained with dark spots that could either have been human blood or excrement. He didn't look any better than he did the first time Darius had seen him. He was still so thin, and it seemed as if he had managed to get himself into more trouble- the kid had several new scars on him, made painfully obvious by the fact that the injured spots looked cleaner than the rest of him.

As soon as he realized what was in front of him, the child grasped the offered fruit with white-knuckled tenacity and lizard speed, clutching it close to his chest and staring at the older boy suspiciously. Darius noted the 'blades' hanging on the rope harness that went over Talon's small frame - some were made of broken glass shards wrapped with cloth handles, while there were at least two other blades that looked to have been pilfered from wealthier thieves. The boy had changed, it seemed.

Still watching Darius with keen eyes, the child dug his teeth into the fruit with a satisfied crunch, chewing thoughtfully, a hand always close to his blade-laden rope harness. For his part, Darius waited patiently. He watched the younger boy tear into the fruit and hoped that the kid wouldn't realize the thing he was eating had just taken a dive in a ditch- but then again, the kid probably lived in what was worse than a ditch.

"'S good," The boy said, as he pushed apple pieces into one of his cheeks like a starved hamster.

"Swallow your food before you talk, Talon." Darius said automatically.

"I do wha' I wanna do." The grubby child swallowed and licked his lips, his eyes still watching the older boy carefully. "Whatsit for?"

"Have you seen an annoying little kid about as tall as my chest with a head bigger than yours and a mouth that won't just stay shut?" Darius asked.

"You talkin' bout a lot of people." The child noted.

"The person I'm looking for is too noisy and too annoying to be 'a lot of people'." Darius retorted.

"Mightno' have seen 'im at all." Talon said with a careless shrug of his bony shoulders.

"I know you tend to keep an eye out." Darius told him. "You're too good a thief to not look behind you."

There was a pregnant pause as the boy thought on his words. Smiling bashfully at Darius' words, he adopted a sort of professional tone- at least, what passed for a professional tone given that he spoke with a strange accent- obviously he had been forced to learn how to talk on his own. "Never seen anybody like tha'."

"Liar." Darius snapped, and he reached out to cuff the boy on the head. Talon managed to dodge the massive paw and glared at him balefully.

"Could kill you," The child said, his little chest puffing out with particular pride as he fingered the cloth-wrapped hilt of one of his blades. "For calling me a liar. An' tryin' to hit me. An' being mean."

"If you'd like, we can continue our little fight. I can finally choke the life out of you with my bare hands." Darius replied tartly. "I'm not here to waste time. Have you seen a mouthy idiot or not?"

"Got a short temper today." Talon mumbled as he backed into the sewer node, letting the darkness obscure the rest of his features and his limbs.

"What's that I hear? You want to die today?" Darius reached down and pulled him back up by the neck of his patched-together shirt. He was held a good foot off the sewer hatch, but still Talon did not cry or quiver in fear.

"Someone pee in your face?" The kid commented slyly.

"Fine, be difficult." Darius snarled as he let the child go. Talon tumbled back into the darkness of his own home- the sound of body hitting stone echoing loudly in the tunnels, and then there was silence. Evidently, this wasn't the first time he had been thrown down a ladder.

"I'm not giving you another apple. I would have if you helped me." Darius told the hole.

There were scrambling sounds from the bottom of the ladder, and then Talon's head peeked out of the open hatch; his hair was in complete disarray and a new bruise was developing on his cheek. The seemingly abusive nature with which Darius had dealt with him didn't seem to faze the boy at all, but the thought of not being given his favorite food had irked him. "… Ya wouldn'."

Darius raised an eyebrow and gave a smug smirk. "I _would_."

"Wouldn'." Talon snapped back as he stared at the older boy resentfully.

"Would."

"Wouldn'."

"_Would_."

"You lyin'!" Talon yelled sorely. "I took a looksy into your pockets- you don't have any more apples on you!"

Darius crossed his arms, confident enough that the younger boy hadn't found the stash. "Or _am_ I?"

Talon was practically squirming inside his hatch. "…How many more apples do you have?"

"Do you know about any noisy idiots who passed by here?" Darius shot back.

"… There was one guy." Talon finally mumbled out. Darius struggled to hold in the first shreds of hope.

"Speak up or else I'm going to hit you again." He said gruffly, raising his hand for good effect.

"One kid!" Talon quailed back. "Bit taller tha' me. Weird hair an' a nose like yours. Mutterin' somethin' about wooing a crowd in Onyx Ward."

Onyx Ward- one of the higher class Wards- was a good ten minutes away. If he left the Underground and used the surface roads, he'd arrive in the central square past sundown. If he used the tunnels- and he still remembered some handy shortcuts- he would get there in ten minutes or so. There was no other option- if he wanted to make sure Draven wasn't sticking his nose into somewhere troublesome, he had to leave now and use the tunnels.

"There's a whole bushel behind the pillar there-" Darius yelled over his shoulder as he ran.

By the time Darius entered Onyx Ward's city square, he had explained himself past four city guards, snuck past three long patrols and literally climbed over one security checkpoint- the aristocrats of Noxus didn't take any chances with the various entrances that led to the criminal underworld. The sun was already sinking underneath the horizon. He could tell from the tense crowd in front of him that the guardsmen were in an uproar about something. Overtaken with worry, he stepped up his pace. He squeezed past the gathered crowd and, upon seeing what they were staring at, resisted the urge to take his face in his own hands and curse his brother for being so stupid.

The scene in front of him was straight out of one of his nightmares: one teenager was bawling his eyes out, a trail of blood, tears and snot trickling down his broken nose. Eleven year old Draven was standing over the youth, his thinner frame laden with rapidly darkening bruises and slowly oozing scrapes.

Darius shoved people aside and made his way to his brother's side.

"What in the world are you doing?" Darius hissed out as he savagely pulled his brother back.

"I'll kill him," Draven snarled out as he struggled against his brother's grasp, the cut on his lip bleeding profusely. "Talking bad about dad, and calling mom a whore- I'll kill him with my ba-"

The younger boy never finished, as Darius cuffed his brother sharply on the head enough to make his brain jump about in his skull.

"You're made of a thousand **fucking** _idiots_." Darius growled. Draven flinched- his temples were already sore from the previous fight, and his brother had just given him another headache.

"All the fucking time," Darius muttered under his breath as he pulled Draven away. "I have to drag you out of your stupid fucking decisions."

"You said we shouldn't-" Draven tried to argue, but his older brother cut him off with a little jerk of his hand and a deathly glare.

"Not here." Darius snapped impatiently. They looked almost comic: Darius had a hand around a good chunk of Draven's shirt, and was using that leverage to literally pull his younger brother away despite the fact that the latter was digging in his heels. For his age, Darius was absurdly strong- especially if one considered the fact that he looked like he could use a hot meal, a bath and new clothes after fighting a forest fire for two days and crawling through the Underground for hours.

Draven tried to complain repeatedly as Darius pulled him down a side-alley, but the older brother having none of it. Darius punched him on the shoulder and shook him like a ragdoll every time he heard a noise- until Draven decided the better course of action was to shut up.

The silence didn't last very long. Once Darius had stopped in the shadow of a granite wall and stared at Draven, the younger couldn't stay quiet any longer.

"You hit me!" Draven whined as he nursed his hurting head.

"What did I tell you before, huh?" Darius resisted the urge to scream at him because his voice was still changing and he'd only sound ridiculous instead of threatening. He forced himself to remain calm, even if all he wanted to do was to shake Draven silly- or beat his brother's face in. "You can whine and bitch all you want, but **you shouldn't pick a fight**!"

"I was only trying to be more like you." Draven said almost pitifully.

Darius stared at him, taken aback by his brother's words. "Why in the world would you ever want to be like me?" He asked him in disbelief.

"Back then, when mom and dad were still alive, you never let anyone insult them." Draven pointed out. "And when I got bullied, you never let them off."

_Look where that led us._ The older boy almost said the thought out loud, but he had caught himself just in time. He shook his head instead. "That's **not** a good idea."

"Why not?" Draven asked, the first sparks of defiance alight in his eyes.

"Because we can't." At that point in time, Darius was too tired to explain.

"You're not making any sense." Draven retorted.

"Just stop picking fights like a fucking idiot and keep your stupid overinflated head down!" Darius kept his hands clenched. He didn't want to hit his brother again- but the brat was asking for it. "That was a stupid thing you did back there! You're fucking lucky I even found you!"

"So you're saying I should just let them walk all over me? Is that it? Whatever happened to being strong?" He spat out, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "And standing up for yourself? You keep telling me that this is Noxus, and I shouldn't let other people bully me, that I shouldn't look weak!"

Darius was about to tell him '_yes'_, that he had to keep his head down because they were practically being hounded off the face of the earth. His mouth was already forming the words when Draven interrupted him with a thunderous shout.

"Well fuck you! I'm not weak like you!" The younger boy screamed. "Just because mom and dad's dead doesn't mean that we should act any different! I'm not going to change for anything!"

_Why am __**I**__ the one getting the sermon now?_ Darius thought to himself despairingly. Willing himself to not throttle his baby brother to death, he shrugged off the insult and tried to remember what exactly it was they were arguing about. Draven apparently had been thinking that his older brother had turned into a coward. "So you think I'm weak?"

"You are!" Draven screeched. "You are weak! You let everyone walk all over you like a fucking rug!"

Darius pulled his fist back and slammed the limb against his brother's jaw. It sent a shock up his arm, made his teeth grind on the edge and hurt like nothing else he'd ever done before, but he honestly felt, with every tired bone in his body, that the younger boy had deserved it. The force of the blow knocked the smaller and lighter Draven off his feet.

Darius towered over him. Mentally reminding himself that he shouldn't kill Draven, he stared down at his baby brother and spoke through gritted teeth. "You still think I'm weak?"

"Go ahead! It's easy to beat me up," Draven managed to snarl back, even though he was somewhat unintelligible now that his jaw was hurting more than ever. "What's a few more hits?"

"It's way too easy to beat the shit out of you," Darius commented bitingly. "What makes you think I'm weak, Draven?"

"You're not-" Draven began, but this time Darius was the one to cut him off. He had enough.

"The question is: what am I _not_ doing?" Darius asked him. His eyes were narrowed to slits, his clenched fists shaking from barely withheld rage. "I go to work so we'd have money, I go to the market and buy you the _good_ food, which I then cook because your stomach is so fucking finicky, I tolerate your noise and your nightmares and your weeping, I sew your fucking clothes and I patch you up when you get yourself into trouble. What else am I _not_ doing?"

"You used to-" Draven tried again, but his older brother stopped him.

"Defending you from bullies? Is that what I'm _not_ doing? Here's a thought: why don't you just **fucking** grow a pair, Draven?" Darius roared at him, and there was nothing else in his voice except for a year of pent-up bitterness at their situation and utter loathing for the person in front of him. His future self would rue this moment, as it was the trigger for more troubles to come, and it was the one moment in his life that he had ever been **painfully** honest with his brother. "You're old enough to fucking take care of yourself! Why don't you just start doing it?"

Tears were gathering at the corners of Draven's eyes as he stared at him in frightened silence. If he had been calmer, Darius would've realized what emotion lurked behind his brother's eyes at that moment: fear. It took a few painful seconds for him to realize that his younger brother was _afraid-_ and when he did, the thought sent a sick feeling through his gut and sent the guilt rushing into his chest. Of all the people in the world, he had made his brother afraid of _him_. Maybe Draven thought that he was going to be left behind; maybe he had actually feared for his own life, maybe-

"… Get up." Brushing the depressing thoughts away, Darius hoarsely called to his brother. "Let's just… go home."

Draven didn't budge. He kept his head down, though Darius could see his shoulder starting to shake. His brother was going to cry again- it was always like that. Feeling nastier by the second, Darius swallowed nervously and then held out a hand to help the younger boy up.

"Come on, Draven." Darius tried, but his voice came out broken and wretched. "We're going ho-"

His brother abruptly slapped his proffered hand away and struggled to his feet by himself.

"Okay." Draven said, but his words were wooden and his eyes were dry. The kid didn't look at him, preferring to keep his head down as he practically half-limped and half-walked towards the general direction of the crèche they called home.

Darius watched his retreating form in shock.

_What have I done?_ He thought miserably.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well there it is. Eventually everyone has to snap, and Darius is no exception. He's worked really hard and he's kept everything bottled in, but then again- Draven does what he wants. I tried to rationalize Draven's errant behavior in the best way possible, and to bring him to maturity in a realistic manner. Of course, his ego is only going to get bigger from here.

As for Talon, Riot has said that Talon didn't have anyone as he grew up. I figured that no one would teach him how to talk properly too- at least, until General du Couteau gets a hand on him. He also is easily swayed by treats (making him partial to apples was just a random choice really)- because he's still a child and he hardly ever leaves the Underground.


	7. Shackles On Their Legs

**********[**SHACKLES ON THEIR LEGS**]**

_By the lakes that thus outspread_

_Their lone waters, lone and dead,—_

_Their sad waters, sad and chilly_

_With the snows of the lolling lily,—_

_By the mountains—near the river_

_Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—_

_By the grey woods,—by the swamp_

_Where the toad and the newt encamp,—_

_By the dismal tarns and pools_

_Where dwell the Ghouls,—_

_By each spot the most unholy—_

_In each nook most melancholy,—_

_There the traveller meets, aghast,_

_Sheeted Memories of the Past—_

_Shrouded forms that start and sigh_

_As they pass the wanderer by—_

_White-robed forms of friends long given,_

_In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven._

**Dream-Land (Edgar Allan Poe)**

* * *

**THREE DAYS LATER…**

For seemingly the nth time that year, Darius wondered how his parents had managed to cope. He knew he had been a problem child- the incident with Adrian de Croix had been one of many- but his parents had never complained or had snapped at him in the same way he had snapped at Draven.

His father had always praised him for standing up for himself, and his mother had always been there to dab away at the cuts and nurse him through his fevers. He didn't know exactly what his parents had gone through in their lives to be so calm and collected. All that he knew was that his mother had been a spy, and his father had donated a limb for the Noxian war effort. Even with his limited knowledge, against those sorts of life-changing events- what experience did he have to match?

_A couple of street fights, several menial jobs and a run of bad decisions,_ Darius decided. _But mostly just bad decisions._

Darius lay in his too-small cot, his feet were hanging off the end and his equally small blanket was loosely covering his waist. Outside the little window over his bed, he could hear and smell the world turning without him. The catcalls of drunken men and the sweet promises of prostitutes sometimes rang over the shouts of the nighttime merchants. The creaking of crates and turn of wooden wheels layered over the shrill calls of overworked horses and wheezing porters. The sticky scent of fermented fish baskets mixed with the pungent fumes of night soil as sewer hatches were pried open by crews of nightmen at the hour when hardly anyone was out on the streets to smell the piles of human excrement being pulled from the sewage. Every now and then there was a great cry, and then a pattering of bare feet and heavy, clanking footsteps following after its owner- a thief, perhaps.

Against the cacophony of noise, he could hardly hear Draven stirring in his bed, but there was a full moon outside, and there was plenty of light coming in from his little window, so he could see the dim outline of his brother's small body under the blankets in the dark as the younger child moved this way and that. He sat up and pushed the thin blanket away from himself as he watched the smaller form thrash about. Darius had not been able to sleep very well since he had lashed out against Draven, and it seemed as if his brother's nightmares had started again since then. Feeling the guilt rise in his stomach, he watched as the blanket was sent flying, and then he heard the telltale desperate gulps of air that hinted at an incoming assault of tears. He swung his legs over and stood up, padding barefooted over to his brother's side of the room and ignoring the sharp floorboards as it bit at his feet. Gathering the thin blanket up in his hands, he pulled it over Draven again and then watched the younger boy's face curl into various expressions of pain.

Draven, as far as he could tell, was still asleep. The younger boy had the misfortune of not being able to wake up until his nightmares nearly sent the kid's heart jumping out of his little mouth- or sent his thin body flying off the bed, whichever one went first. There wasn't much he could do until Draven woke up from his own dreams, so Darius walked back to his bed, pulled his pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep.

Old men in white coats speculate that dreams are a process by which the human brain organizes memories and thoughts, and that nightmares stem from physical causes such as a fever or from psychological causes such as stress or traumatic events. People of the nomadic and mystical persuasion state that dreams are a prophetic window into the future, and that nightmares are caused by evil spirits that took residence in one's head. A cure of three lungs and three livers, dried frogs powdered and placed in drink is applied- after which the sick person would then say a couplet about how frogs in one's belly would devour what is bad and take the evil out of one's system. If by some chance one is not particularly interested in science or strange laxatives, however, one could simply attribute the bizarre nature of dreams to a certain species of plant named after a woman, and place the blame of nightmares to the consumption of an expired jar of pickles or perhaps a bad tuna sandwich.

Draven did not have an expired jar of pickles for dinner for the past twelve months- they were too poor to afford anything outside of gruel, really- but what he _did_ have was a rather traumatic event. His parents had been executed in front of him, and even though he had tried to blot it out of his head, it had haunted him constantly. His dreams were always nightmares that made him cry in his sleep. One minute, he would be remembering his family as it had been. In the next minute, all he would feel was his brother's hand over his eyes and his mother's lifeblood on his face. And then he would be drowning in a sea of red, screaming and thrashing as the fluid entered his mouth and filled his lungs- and the last thing he would see was his mother's severed head, smiling at him as he drowned.

And then Draven would wake up- a tangle of quaking limbs, hoarse screams and sweat-stained sheets while his heart tried to launch itself out of his chest. In the first few months since the execution, he would cry incessantly for his mother even if he knew full well she was gone, and then his brother would always push himself out of his own bed and sit in the old rickety chair next to his pallet, watching him silently with an indecipherable face before placing a hand on his forehead and rubbing comforting circles into his temples until he finally went back to sleep- that had been how Dar had always stopped the tears, ever since Draven had been a newborn baby swaddled in rough cloth.

The nightmares had stopped by the fifth night of Darius' silent support, and he had slept easier since then- but after the incident at Onyx Ward where Darius had hit him hard enough to knock him off his feet, he found himself drowning in a crimson tide and tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth again- but instead of his mother's bleeding head it had been his brother watching him drown, face twisted in a grotesque mask, his eyes filled with nothing but utter hatred.

It had been three nights since the punching incident, and every time Draven woke up from his mortifying dream, he would simply cry silently for a good thirty minutes in the darkness, his shoulders heaving up and down as he buried his face in his straw pillow and tried his hardest to go back to sleep even if he was still too afraid to do so. Sometimes he could hear Darius stirring in his bed nearby, but each and every time the other boy did so, Draven held his breath and curled into a tight ball to stop himself from shaking- and then he would not hear anything from Darius' side of the room.

Draven didn't want to disturb him- in fact, he didn't want Darius to worry about him anymore because he wanted to show his brother that he was growing up like Dar wanted him to- but by the fourth night and a particularly nastier version of his recurring nightmare in which he was hounded by floating heads and carrion beetles, Darius seemingly had enough. As Draven was biting down on his rough blanket to stop his sobs, Darius got up from his bed and took his customary spot on the chair next to Draven's pallet once more.

The younger boy expected his brother's cool hand- but he stiffened in surprise when Dar decided to speak instead. Maybe the older boy didn't know that Draven was awake? It was too much to hope for.

"I don't even know why I bother talking to you when you're obviously asleep but..." He heard his brother sigh. "Well, I don't know how else to go about it- so I'll just talk. If you're not asleep, then good- at least I won't feel bad about talking to myself in the middle of the night while Matron's choking on her own spit."

Draven didn't move a muscle on the bed. What else was he supposed to do? Tell Dar he was actually awake? That wouldn't help. He was _supposed_ to be asleep and he was _supposed_ to not bother Dar anymore. What point would there be in masking his weakness if he was just going to go up to his brother and cry again? He was old enough. He didn't have to bother Darius with everything. Talking back would only keep Dar awake longer- and he knew Dar needed sleep more than he did. So Draven let him talk.

"I'm not sorry for hitting you," His brother's voice, soft as it was in the darkness of the room, sounded as if he was trying his best to be pragmatic against a knot of whatever it was in his throat that was making him sound stiff and strained. "That wasn't the first time you deserved something like that, but I will admit I went a little too far."

A little too _far_? It was like calling a massive explosion a little spark- or calling the clouds above Noxus during monsoon season just a _bit_ dark. The younger boy would never admit it to other people, but he had been afraid for his own life at that moment, and his brother had not been his brother at all. The blow to his jaw had hurt, but then again… he _had_ called Darius something nasty.

"I guess… I was worried the whole day, and when you called me a coward- after what I've been going through to find your sorry ass- well," Darius made a gruff noise.

_I wasn't being an idiot!_ Draven suppressed the urge to defend himself, but no- he wasn't listening to his brother justify his blows. No, he was supposed to be asleep. If he kept quiet for a bit longer- Dar would go back to sleep too.

"You know full well that we're in a bad position right now, and you still went off and… did the stupidest thing **ever**. As _usual_. It's the shit that you pull that fucking piss me off a lot of times." There was a pause, and then Darius' next words were spoken so fast that he practically bundled them together in a string of loose sentences. "When you fight everyone that looks at you. When you whine about being hungry. When you bitch about not getting anything nice. You don't even do anything useful."

Draven resisted the urge to scoff, and reminded himself yet again that he was _supposed_ to be asleep. He had been in Onyx Ward to look for work that day- really, he had been going through all the Wards and looking for quick work for the past month or so with very little luck due to his thin frame- and the bullies had just caught up to him just as he was about to get temporary work as a courier.

"But fuck it, I'm rambling." His brother muttered under his breath.

_You don't say?_ Draven thought sarcastically.

"Whatever. Look, I might be shitfaced and angry about stuff that you do, but you're still my brother," Even with the sentiment, it seemed as if Darius was trying to reassure himself of a simple fact. "It's just… It's been a little hard to work and… well, take care of you at the same time." Darius gave a heavy sigh. "I don't think I did a very good job of it- I _want_ to, but you have to help me somehow."

_I'm trying too._ Draven mused. _Don't you see that?_

"I guess- what I wanted to say is that I… Well, I'm _sorry_. I suppose." Darius finished awkwardly, the apology sounded stiff on his tongue. "I just… I just want you to be strong too. I know that Dad might've found an easier way to show you without hitting you that bad. Mom might've been a lot gentler- but Draven, they're gone. It's just you and me now, and I can't keep this up alone forever."

That was it? That was why his brother was always telling him off? Was that why Darius never stopped nagging him about finding a job, or berating him about eating or reminding him to taking care of himself while he was off at work? Darius had gone through the same things too- and his brother didn't look like he was giving in to the tears. He had only seen Dar cry _once_, and that had been the time his parents had volunteered themselves.

Draven wanted to be that strong too- he was so tired of crying that his head hurt just thinking about it, but his dreams were always so horrible, and his waking hours were never good either. He didn't know how Dar did it day-after-day.

He heard the chair creak slightly- maybe his brother was leaning over. Draven stayed still, eyes shut and mouth slightly open- and soon the hand was on his forehead, his brother's thumb massaging his temples once more.

"Crying again," Darius muttered with what Draven took to be a fond sigh. "Always crying. That's never going to change, is it?"

_I'll change, _Draven thought before sleep claimed him. _I'll change!_

When Draven awoke the next morning, his brother's cot was empty, and there was a note on top of the rotten dresser. Whenever he had work and could not stay in the crèche for an extended period of time, Darius' way had always been to leave notes next to new clothes or cold bowls of soup. Draven had never known a time when his brother had ever failed to write down the daily reminders, but this was the first time that there was nothing next to the sheet of paper.

The younger brother pushed himself out of bed and padded to the dresser, grimacing at the way the rough boards bit at his feet. He pulled the note from the dresser and squinted at it in the dim morning light. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon- monsoon season would be coming soon, and Draven stared worriedly up at the hole in the rafters that Darius still had to repair before he sighed and turned his attentions back to reading.

Their mother didn't have much time to have them work on their penmanship before the execution had occurred, so the five items on the note were scrawled in his brother's untidy hand- Dar had probably written everything down using cheap watered-down ink and a broken quill as the text blotted out completely in some areas:

1) Don't be a - idiot.

2) Go find a job. If not, stay in -.

3) Will be back by nightfall. Ask Matron for g-.

4) Stay out of Matron's way if staying in crèc-.

5) Don't be - idiot.

Draven made a grumpy noise in his throat as he put the note back on the dresser. He had promised himself that he would change, and today was a good time to start. Seeing as Dar hadn't left any breakfast, Draven picked up a pair of worn boots, hopped onto the windowsill and climbed out onto the roof. There, he found the basin of rainwater that Dar had put a long time ago and pulled his clothes off. After washing off sleep and grime from yesterday and shaking himself dry like a dog, he pulled his clothes back on, forced his too-big feet into his too-small shoes and scanned the streets below.

Dar had told him once that opportunity was everywhere if he knew how to look for it. His limbs hanging off the edge of the slate roof tiles, he shaded his eyes against the light of the sun and squinted down at the bustling streets of Sapphire Ward. There was some sort of thing going on off by West Gate, and he could tell because there was a crowd gathering for some reason and the people- nigh ant-like from his vantage point- were converging upon it.

That was it- that was his chance. The small boy shimmied down the drainpipe and hit the cobbled ground with a barely withheld yelp of pain- his shoes were too small and Dar was still learning how to cut leather properly- before he straightened up and forced himself to walk. By the time he made it to the hubbub, he was struggling against an unforgiving mass of arms and legs, and managed by sheer luck and his small frame, to come close to the center of attention.

At the heart of the mob, he found a woman. She was easily taller than most of the men around her- members of the city guard from what he could tell of their armor. Unlike other Noxian nobles that he had seen, who had spent too much on disturbingly pallid makeup and brightly colored stones and dyed cloth that made absolutely no sense, she was well-toned and tanned, her breasts were large and pressed firmly against her bodice. The colors of her elaborate but practical dress were black and gold, with rich blood red rubies set within golden chains- there were plenty of those- and little golden buttons polished to a bright sheen. Her hazel eyes shone bright gold in the light of the sun, perfectly formed lips painted with tempestuous red, short black hair framing her aristocratic face in the most perfect manner. She wore a rather impressive diadem: it was a golden chain bearing a single diamond at the center of her forehead.

As beautiful as she was, it seemed that the rest of the world bored her. There were many people who so obviously admired her, calling her name and waving their arms- outright begging to be acknowledged by a goddess who chose to walk amongst mortals. For his part, Draven openly gaped at her- swept away not by her beauty, but by the way she commanded attention. He wondered how she had come to be, why she was standing in a Ward that catered to the middle-class, speculated on she managed to hold on to everyone's attention without even speaking a single word.

Her smoky eyes scanned the crowd of individuals, her mouth turned in a smile- but to Draven it seemed nothing more than a snarl of displeasure- these people, these _animals_, they did not deserve to see her. Where Darius would have turned his head away in disgust, Draven drank in the experience- he wanted so much to be in her place, to be dressed in finery and to be watched as if the entire world revolved about him.

And then suddenly, her wandering eyes rested on him- squashed between a tailor and a blacksmith clamoring for her graces. She tilted her head and pointed at _him_.

"You," Her voice was absolutely divine. It was no doubt the product of maybe decades of phonetics practice, quality education and high breeding. - the exact opposite of Draven. "You will do."

"Me?" Draven squeaked out.

"I require a porter, you see." She said the final word with a flourish. "And you will do nicely."

Draven forced himself out of the throng, collapsing on his knees in front of her. He bit back the pain that emanated from his shoes and practically shuddered when he smelled her perfume- lilies and something else he was too poor to have ever known at that moment- as she placed her fingers under his chin and slowly lifted his head.

"There is no need to bow," She said, even though all he could detect with his childish senses was a pleased look upon her face.

"I fell." Draven said stupidly.

"You poor, tired child- then perhaps I should find another porter?" She eyed him sympathetically, but there was something else in that gaze- _victory_ perhaps, or something even more.

Draven scrambled to his feet quicker than ever, and shook his head at her. "No! No, I want to do it! Please let me do it!"

She smiled- a true smile now, but he wasn't quite sure what it meant. "Are you quite certain you can handle the burden?"

"Anything! I can carry anything! Crates, cases, umbrellas- I can carry it all for you!" He said quickly, afraid that if he showed further indecision, she would turn her gaze away from him. She gave a laugh- full and haughty as she was- and then turned her back to him and the rest of the jealous crowd.

"Come with me, child." She said.

Draven followed, like a moth flying towards the hypnotizing fire of a gas lantern.

Her name, he learned later on, was Emilia. She had refused to give him her House name, stating that he was not yet worthy to know of it. Despite the obvious blow against his lot in life, Draven had taken what praise she gave happily, following her perfumed heels like a dog starved of treats being given a morsel of spoiled meat. Where Darius would have fought back against her machinations, even just a bit, Draven was too young to realize what was happening, and acquiesced to her every request.

Draven carried suitcases upon suitcases for her, across steep streets and over paved hills. He placed his own clothes into puddles so that her shoes and delicate toes would not become wet. She visited several stores, purchasing paper-wrapped packages and having him carry so much he thought that if he fell over he would die- but he would die happily. Wherever Emilia went, a crowd was destined to follow, and he enjoyed being in her wake as much as she abhorred the attentions of common men. By the end of the day, when he was absolutely certain his boots were leaving behind bloody prints in the stones, she pressed a single silver coin into his hand and smiled down at him.

"Thank you, boy." Emilia said- she had never bothered to learn his name.

"Will you ever need me again?" He asked innocently, his eyes as wide and as pitiful to look at like a lost dog.

"In due time," She said mysteriously, giving him a little pat on the cheek – as a master would to an overworked horse ready to be shot. "In due time, boy."

Darius would have objected- one silver for a day's work and a month's worth of recuperating from shoes that were too small was too little a fee- but Draven clutched the single coin against his chest like a priceless treasure. It was, quite possibly, the first thing he had ever worked for in his entire life, and as much as his feet were screaming at him, he was too overwhelmed with a sense of achievement and infatuation to be bothered.

Eagerly, Draven ran back to the crèche, but on the way he thought he saw his brother in the window of a tavern. Curious, in the way that children were when they were about to come across something they were never supposed to see, he ducked into the establishment and hid himself behind a nearby pillar, watching his brother talk to a heavily battered man across him.

Draven had seen the man before- Sion, his father's friend. This was a particularly noisy tavern, and he would have been straining to hear their conversation if it was not for the fact that Darius' voice was turning into something loud and laden with jagged stones.

"You look tired." Sion leaned back into the chair, the small thing creaking under the weight of his muscles and his armor- dented and scratched beyond belief like the rest of him.

"I've been working." Darius replied offhandedly.

"How is your brother?" Sion tilted his head. It was a small miracle that his battle-scarred face could somehow still convey emotion.

"He's fine." Darius replied shortly.

"Right. Are you good with weapons? How's that going?" Sion asked casually- a bit too much, if Dar's suspicious expression was anything to take by.

"I'm alright with a sword," His older brother replied slowly, measuring his words carefully. "And knives, but I've been thinking about following in dad's footsteps- with the bearded axe, I mean."

"Axes. Great! I'll have one made." The false optimism was making even Draven skeptical.

"How _thoughtful_." Darius said sarcastically. "So what do you really want from me?"

"Just your time." Sion replied.

His brother made a noise of impatience and furrowed his brows at the soldier across him- Draven had seen that look on his face many times before when Dar couldn't tolerate any more beating around the bush. "I don't think either of us are particularly suited for talking. I'll get right to the point: asking to meet me would mean that you want something from me."

"What if I just want to know how Hystaspes' kids are doing?" Sion retorted, raising an eyebrow at the youth across him. Darius gave him a flat look- and Draven resisted the urge to laugh. Dar was _pissed_.

Instead of quailing back in fear, Sion gave a belly full of laughter and smashed his hand on the table. "Your parents really did do their best with you."

"I try. Every day." His brother replied dryly. "Get to the point."

Sion pulled out a sealed envelope from a satchel at his side and slid it across to his brother. Draven couldn't see it too well from his vantage point, but from what he could gather, it looked very official: it was made from nice paper, and had a black wax seal on the front and formal-looking handwriting at the back.

"The Military Academy at Boram's Point is opening its doors to officer candidate hopefuls two months from now," Sion's lip quirked up in a smirk. "That envelope contains, if you choose to sign it, your recruitment papers."

Draven blinked- he had heard of Boram's Point. Who didn't in Noxus? It was the first and finest military academy in the entire city-state. The only people who went there were the rich and the deserving. In order to be considered as a candidate, one had to be recommended by an active-duty ranking military official, or by a House head.

Darius looked like he was holding back so many questions. Draven watched as his older brother drummed his fingers on the table in thought, before the teenager finally chose to reply: "… Well, I can't say I'm not interested. Any reason for the sudden act of charity?"

Draven felt the first stirrings of fear in his gut. He was happy for his brother, he _really_ was. Even he knew how much of a big deal Boram's Point was- but still, if his brother was going there, that would mean-

"Word gets around with such a high profile execution- a lot of interested parties saw how you dealt with it. Frankly, they were rather impressed." Sion shrugged his wide shoulders, chainmail jingling merrily. "So, they dug around a bit, told me a few things, asked for a couple of favors, gave the right amount of gold... the usual."

His brother leaned forward- his interest had been piqued further. Draven suppressed the urge to reveal himself- he wanted to know more, as horrible as that sounded. "Is there any chance that some of that gold would make it to me?"

"There's a big chance." Sion admitted. "If you sign those papers, you get a monthly stipend, and your sponsor is going to pay for your food, board and education."

"How _generous_." Darius remarked dryly. "What are you really trying to do here, Sion?"

"Just being a good friend of the family." Sion replied innocently. "And a good messenger- as unbelievable as that sounds for you."

"It's been a year since dad died, and you've never even approached us once." Darius pointed out. Draven watched as his brother's voice seemed to get more thunderous by the second. "Now you just come here, and expect me to take whatever gifts you have so I can be in your debt?"

Admirably, Sion stood his ground. "Look kid, this is _Noxus_. If you don't want to have a career, that's fine with me. I'll tell your sponsor that you aren't interested in a stipend or a _real_ military education." The warrior tilted his head. "Hell, I'll even tell them you're too proud to accept the sponsorship- bureaucrats _love_ reasons like that. It gives them some fuel to throw."

"I'm not saying I don't want to be in the military, I'm saying that I don't want to owe anyone _anything_." Darius retorted. "I'm doing my best to keep Draven and myself afloat, and we're managing so far, but if I get to Boram's Point, it'll be because I worked for it, not because some foppish old man with a powdered wig thought I was a good bet."

"Easy, son." Sion raised both his hands. "No one said you didn't work for it. You deserve that place on the candidate list, I can tell you that. Even if you are a good four years younger- that's good. When you get out of Boram's, you'll be ready for conscription as a commissioned officer."

"I'm not your son," Darius gritted out. "I want to know just who it is that thinks I'm a good option to throw money at right now before I even say yes to anything that's going to take four years of my life away. I don't have anyone else I can trust who can look after my brother right now."

"I can do that," Sion volunteered a bit too quickly.

_No_, Draven thought morosely. A world without Dar over his shoulder was a world he was not ready to have, as strange as that sounded. In the future, of course, he would be rejoicing at his brother's absences, but as of now, he was still so young- and he had not spent even a week away from his brother's company since their parents had died.

Quite suddenly, there was a tap on the glass window next to him. Draven turned his head and found himself face-to-beak with a crow the size of his head, its large eyes shining almost intelligently in the growing dusk. The boy staggered back in shock- he didn't even hear it land on the windowsill. The large avian eyed him- as if it was measuring his mettle- before it gave a keening cry and an impatient flutter of its wings. Was it asking him to open the window?

Stupidly, the boy reached over and pulled the latch away. The bird pushed the glass window open with its head- how strong was it really?- and then hopped inside the establishment. It fluttered up to the rafters and gave a keening call. To Draven's amazement, he saw Sion's small eyes dart up to the large black bird, and saw a strange emotion within. Darius would later tell his brother that he had recognized the emotion as _fear_.

Like a puppet being played on a string, Sion's eyes darted back to the youth sitting across him and he began to speak in a hurried tone. "Your sponsor! Well, alright, I'll tell you this much: he's- _fairly_ high ranking and works for Battlefield Intelligence. Like all the other officers from Boram's old guard, he's from a House."

Darius raised an eyebrow at him- the quick change of heart had obviously made his brother suspicious. "Which one?"

"Ever heard of the House of Swain?" At that name, the bird gave an impatient squawk, and stomped a large foot down on the rafters. '_Get on with it!'_ it seemed to say, or perhaps it meant something else entirely.

_Were crows usually that intelligent?_ Draven found himself wondering. He would've reached out to touch it, but Darius' reply tore his attention away from capturing the mystery bird.

"No." His brother sounded displeased, uncertain.

"Well then, there's a start for you!" Sion exclaimed. "Gods above, it's not that hard. Just put your ear on the ground and find out for yourself."

Dar frowned at him. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Trust me when I say that I already said too much." Sion said nervously. "If I talk about it a bit more, I'm going to turn into crowbait in the morning."

_Crowbait_. Draven looked at the bird. It puffed up its chest and stared down at him imperiously- much like Emilia had.

"You sound afraid." Darius remarked, studying the older warrior's expressions and reactions with as much caution as a big-game hunter had in the savannah.

"When you know what the guy is capable of doing, you tend to be a bit _more_ afraid than you usually do." Sion said.

"… And he's interested. In my progress." It was not a question.

"I'd tell you to run for it, but then again you'll be beheaded for desertion." The warrior gave a nervous laugh. "Look, just take my offer, kid. It's all there for you- money, education, the chance to make something out of yourself, a blazing start in your little quest to take back the family name?"

"… How do I know that this isn't going to screw me and Draven over?" Darius asked him finally. It seemed that even he was starting to be swayed. For his part, Draven only felt more panic grasp his heart. If his brother was going to take the offer, he would be alone for the next four years.

"You _don't_." Sion stated simply. "But trust me when I say that he'll get you places, alright? Places you need to go- out of that stupid rat hole you call a home and into something a bit more reputable- like a residence in Garnet Ward?"

Darius' expression flitted into a snarl- the older man had just invaded a seclusion he worked so hard to have- but Sion was having none of it. "_Noxus_, kid. I told you. People watch. People _know_."

Darius grumbled something under his breath- a string of bad words as far as Draven could tell.

"I'm trying to be your friend here. We both don't like being pushed around, I can tell." Sion tilted his head. "So can we stop bickering about something _good_? Are you going to sign the papers?"

After what seemed like an eternity spent in thought, of weighing what options he had versus a possibly brighter future for himself and for his brother, Darius gave a damning nod.

Draven decided he had seen enough.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I took my time with this, mostly because I wasn't sure how to sequence events properly. But here we'll see what was actually happening from Draven's side of the story, and really- executions are horrible things for children to see. I didn't think he'd recover from it as fast as he could have wanted to- because his life was a sheltered one up until that point. We can see that he tries though, and I wanted to put it across that he isn't some sort of wimp that Darius carries around with him for the rest of his life. Draven still has some backbone, but it's not easy to see because he's still so young.


	8. Save My Soul

**[SAVE MY SOUL]**

_I saw edges of myself being flattened by rain,_

_could smell the earth too and thought of the years_

_of rot that made the smell, the rot of my father and his father_

_and all those who had gone before and how we eat the root_

_of the earth and then turn into rot ourselves just as_

_pieces of dirt were grinding away between my teeth and tongue,_

_my bit of gristle being stirred into earth's stew._

**The Grand Army of the Republic** **(John Spaulding)**

* * *

**TWO MONTHS LATER...**

There are many things that could be said of the Noxian military- and by extension, the rest of Noxian society itself. The reclusive warrior tribe of Rakkor at the slopes of Mount Targon regard Noxian infantry as worthy opponents- which is certainly saying something considering the fact that the Rakkor themselves are seen as ruthless and uncompromising by the rest of Runeterra due to the grueling Rite of Kor; the adage 'kill or be killed' taken to the utmost extreme as Rakkor elders essentially force every child to kill a weaker member of their society in order to be addressed a mature adult- with one notable exception in the form of the Radiant Dawn herself, Leona.

The Piltoverians see the Noxian army as a roughhewn club wielded by an ogre. There are no tactics; no intelligence involved in their movements- there is only raw, unadulterated strength and a one-track mind for death and destruction. However, residents of the City of Progress do respect the Noxian intelligence community- which is a valid reason given that Battlefield Intelligence analysts and Tactical Reconnaissance operatives often work hand in hand with the scientists and innovators of Zaun, a neighboring city-state and Piltover's intellectual and techmaturgical rival.

The Ionians, diplomatic and philosophical as ever, largely perceive the entirety of Noxus as having lost its direction in life, steered into irredeemable depths by its war-mongering leaders. The military then is a vehicle of propaganda, and its people a tormented race in sore need of enlightenment and lasting peace. As a patient healer must be to a traumatized child, Ionian ambassadors steadily work on Noxian diplomats during important meetings, coaxing and pleading them away from what the peace-loving people perceive as rash and destructive actions.

The Freljord, still unformed during Darius and Draven's childhoods, would nonetheless consider Noxus as a formidable enemy. The famed 'Barbarian Pacification Campaign' would later wipe out a majority of the northern tribes in the typical Noxian manner: using efficient military stratagems designed by the greatest generals Noxus had to offer, unwavering ruthless soldiers would systematically hunt down and kill barbarian tribesmen by the thousands- women, children, none would be spared. It would be a thorough and clinical way to terminate an enemy, and it would be such a show of strength that even the densest tribal in the tundra would recognize Noxian might.

And then there are the Demacians, a collectivist society and the very ideological antithesis of Noxians. Ruled by the illustrious Lightshield family patriarch, Jarvan III, Demacians see their Noxian counterparts as cold, uncaring beings devoid of any emotion except for greed and wrath. For them, a city-state must do its part and leave no man behind, even at the cost of national greatness and achievement, whereas Noxians perceive the duty of carrying such societal baggage as a sin. Noxus and its personal, individualistic policies are seen as evil itself, in the same way that Noxus sees Demacia's emphasis on benevolence and altruism as a futile effort, a mere bandage slapped over the brutal realities of life.

The two city-states had been at war as far as anyone could remember. And while Noxians would say that their military is more effective, most of the aristocratic families would also agree that Demacians seem to be more _determined_ to win their timeless war, for the lack of a better word. In Demacia, oddly enough, the same perception remains: the Demacian military is more effective, but the Noxians are too stubborn to consider themselves as beaten.

It should come to no surprise then that the military factors greatly in both city-states, but unlike Demacia, Noxians live and breathe conflict and death- out of the other city-states, perhaps only the Rakkor and the Freljordan tribe of the Winter's Claw understand what it truly means for those who live within the foreboding granite walls. Since they had been children, Darius and Draven had been surrounded by death and squalor, by the proofs of life that dictated to them '_mercy is weakness, and weakness is death'_. The same would hold true for Talon, the Blade's Shadow, who was born in the darkness of the tunnels, who knew no love and had nothing to call his own. Even Katarina, the Sinister Blade, would grow up swathed in delicate silk and blades dripping with blood. Each and every Noxian alive and breathing won the game that was life within their state- but their position would never truly be secure from interlopers- foreign or domestic.

As befitted a people primed for war, who never felt truly safe even in the walls of their own state, Noxian military academies were prevalent. There was a school for artillery officers, a school for quartermasters- there even were schools for battlefield engineers and logistics officers. The military was a Noxian constant, and like all else within the state, to be commended and acknowledged as a graduate of even one of those academies was a great achievement in itself. Above all those institutes, however, the Military Academy at Boram's Point was the very peak. Largely due to its demanding and perfectionist curriculum, the nation's best and brightest officers all graduated from Boram's Point. Thus, to be considered as an officer-candidate, as Sion had informed Darius all those weeks ago, was proof of one's personal ability.

It was the largest school in the state- easily dwarfing the Basic Infantry School that lay within the southern swamps. Nestled in a large valley filled with fire-burnt trees and deep chasms carved by prehistoric rivers, the school's architecture mirrored the apocalyptic landscape it nestled in: wrought-iron gates and fences, shale grey walls and sharp obsidian steeples, grimacing demonic gargoyles and cobbled stones. Inside, the buildings were cavernous and eerily hollow like the bones of a giant whale, covered wall-to-wall with ancient tapestries of battles long gone, suits of battered armor in every alcove- proofs of the Noxian warrior society as far as the eye could see. The classrooms were a simple arrangement of blackened chairs and desks- the true lessons lay within the gymnasium and the wasteland outside.

The gymnasium, or, as the candidates themselves called it, 'the Wolf's Pit', was a large ring made of sharp black volcanic sand encircled by a grandstand of granite. Various weapons were kept inside a nearby shed, and when the hour for sparring came, candidates would work against each other using real weapons, sharpened to a killer edge. It was not at all uncommon for candidates to behead someone by accident- in fact it was encouraged by the instructors themselves. Only the strong would survive Boram's Point.

Field exercises were held in the scarred landscape, using real weapons and real tactics. Horror stories were plentiful: of being left in the field to be eaten by the crows, of being starved and hounded by instructors for nights on end, of being forced to conduct tactical maneuvers without sleep or water. There was nothing false about Noxian military training at Boram's Point- everything was real, so that when the direst situations ever occurred, the officers would know what to do. Even with the knife hanging above their heads, every single person who had ever entered the infamous campus considered it a great honor to have even stepped on the grounds.

There must have been a thousand of them outside the gates, most of them young men and women carrying a single canvas bag- they had been banned from bringing any more than one. Most of them had looks of wonderment on their faces and curious questions streaming out of their mouths. There were some veterans who managed to gain passage into the school- if it was not obvious from their scarred visage, it was the way they walked and talked. They were sure of themselves, of their abilities and their strengths, more than the wiry youths around them. Darius, on the other hand, didn't feel as if he belonged anywhere. He was fourteen years old, even if he didn't look it, and he was surrounded by both the battle-hardened and the inexperienced. He wondered what would happen to him, like the young did, but at the same time his vision of the future was tempered with what he had gone through, as the old did.

And the future was not bright, from his perspective at least. He had done his best in the two months he had to teach Draven how to live by himself for the next four years. There would be no furlough from Boram's Point- no brief return to life outside the wrought-iron gates. It would be four straight years of the most intense training of his life, and four straight years of Draven doing as he wanted with the stipend he would send back. Four years of rigorous learning, and four years of Draven running amok and doing as he pleased. Needless to say, Darius was not at all comfortable with leaving his brother to his own devices, but this was an opportunity, and he could not say no.

He would have fretted a bit more, though he would never admit it, when the gates of the academy swung open and an entire column of men and women in full polished battle gear marched out to some unseen cadence. Like small fish making way for a giant whale, the mob of impatient youths and impressed veterans let the column of soldiers split them in two. Silently thanking his height, Darius watched over the heads of the other eager recruits as snare drums beat a marching song.

The grey-eyed man's hair framed his dignified face, thick and straight; the color of burnished iron. He had a cleanly trimmed beard and goatee and bore lines around his mouth and eyes. There was a faint scar around his temple, a bizarre half-moon shape the size of a large ring. He was not very tall- his head only came up to the shoulders of his guards. He was of a slight build; Darius felt that he could have jumped on him and broken his back if he pleased. Still, he was clad in a high collared black double-breasted coat, the Noxian crest, elaborate gold and silver braid and five bars on his rank epaulettes indicated his rank to be that of a Major. There was a sword strapped to his side: a deadly white wave-bladed sword laden with black runes that looked like it had seen more battles than Darius had seen summers.

"My name," The man spoke with such a deep baritone that if there had been a god on Runeterra, that would have been his voice. "Is Ignatius, of the House of Montfort. I was given authority to administer to Boram's Point thirty years ago- while most of you were still specks in your mother's wombs. I am your Commander, and the final judge that you **must** impress if you wish to leave these walls alive."

"I appear weak to you. That is not a question." He gestured to the tall armored men flanking him. "Indeed, I appear to be quite beyond my years- but like all else within these walls, what you initially perceive is not what you will experience."

Commander de Montfort held his hands behind his back, scanning their faces with a pleased look. "I only have one question that I wish to ask to _all_ of you. If even one of you can answer me correctly, then you do not need to be here, because it is the only lesson that Boram's Point has to offer you."

He gave them a secretive smile, and then spread his hands in the typical show of bemusement. "Candidates, what is Noxus?"

Darius stared at him. What was the point in asking foolish questions?

"The city-state." Said one veteran. A few individuals nervously laughed at his wit.

"Yes, if one should choose to answer the question literally," For his part, Commander de Montfort did not seem to be insulted by the veteran's gall. In fact, he seemed rather amused. "But that response is for the foolish and the uninitiated."

"The land." Another volunteered.

"This land is known by another name, but it was lost through time." Commander de Montfort replied demurely. "That is yet another fool's response, and shows your lack of intellect."

"Hell." One ventured bravely.

"That is an amusing comparison, given that we are in such a place." Commander de Montfort gestured to the fire-burnt landscape about them. "If this is what you perceive Hell to be, candidate, I will enjoy breaking you."

Darius stared at the other people around him, wondering what it was that they were thinking. This questioning was making him doubtful of his future within the Academy. He didn't know anything about philosophy, or literature, or art or even music. His father had taught him nothing of that, and his mother barely had time to introduce him to what she called 'classics'. All he knew was the sound of his tortured stomach after another three hours of not being fed, the feel of dirt underneath his fingernails, the rough handle of the axe that Sion had given to him to practice with, and the smell of blood on his scraped knees and hands. How was he going to compete, if the technical lessons of the Academy were going to be on concepts he had absolutely no idea about?

He stayed silent, as the Commander and other, more knowledgeable recruits bantered back and forth.

"Derivatives." Commander de Montfort said after the seventh answer. "All of you, answering in derivatives: the land, the state, the country, the government. All of you are wrong. Look elsewhere, beyond the physical aspects that you can see, that you can feel, that you can touch. What is Noxus? At its heart? At its very core?"

_All this talking is making my head hurt,_ Darius decided.

"Noxus is strength." A voice said. Moving as one, the mob turned to look at the source. He was a young man with blue eyes and dark hair of average height and build, with an aristocratic face and educated tones in his voice.

Commander de Montfort gave an elaborate bow as soon as he realized who it was. "My Lord Darkwill. You've grown."

The youth seemed to flush- what with a thousand eyes staring at him in complete and utter surprise. "It will only be Keiran." He said determinedly. "And I wish for no special treatment- that is why I am here."

"Little boy wants to prove to his pappy and big brother that he's got some balls to go to a school his dad renamed after himself." One of the veterans commented.

As great as the insult had been to his House, Keiran Darkwill did not react. He merely stared at the veteran- perhaps he was shocked beyond belief, or perhaps he was thinking of how to best smother the veteran as the man slept. After a second, the youth cast his glance away, and Darius understood exactly _why_ he did nothing.

_ It is more insulting to be ignored, rather than to be taken as a threat, after all._ Darius thought.

Commander de Montfort was smiling. "Candidate Keiran," He stressed the name now- acquiescing to the youth's request to be treated the same as everyone else. "Is correct: Noxus is strength."

The thousand eyes turned back to the older man, drinking in his pleased smile and his words. "In Noxus, the feeble perish in the darkness, as they deserve, and the worthless are left behind. That is how it has been since time immemorial, and that is why Noxus is strength, given form in its people. Let this be your first lesson, candidates: there is no point in showing kindness or benevolence to others. The weak will remain weak, and cowards will never obtain true strength of character. They will never be strong, and so they must be culled. By showing no mercy, we cut off the tumors of society that hold us back from conquest and glory. By purging our society of those that seek to cripple it with their cowardice and indolence, we prevail. A strong people create a strong state."

Commander de Montfort was talking faster now, his voice giving more weight to his words. "A strong state demands nothing but the strongest officers to lead it, and that is why this institution stands within these forsaken lands, this harsh, demonic terrain, so far from everything and everyone that you know and love. Only through fire can gold be purified, the most valuable elements weaned from worthless rock. We will test you. Most of you will fail. A few of you will be strong enough to survive. This few will be the strongest, the most determined among you-they shall be the most ideal Noxian officers, chosen through trials of blood and steel."

Darius would forever remember this moment as the time in his life that he realized he loved Noxus for what it was: the state of the strong, whose families obtained prestige rightfully in battle, and earned glory and prosperity through adversity. The current hold that aristocrats had over the city-state was temporary. _They_ were not strong. He knew that with Adrian's death, and with Maynard's inability to stop his parents from having a death that _they_ had deemed acceptable. Filled with fervor, he found that he could see clearly now- which person knew that they deserved their House name, which person walked over the bones of their ancestors to hold power under false pretenses- he _knew_.

Eventually, he would act upon it. The Culling of the Weak, historians would later call his purge, but Darius was still only fourteen years old as of now, and there was still much grief and toil to be had before he would finally bring his plans into motion.

Commander de Montfort clasped his hands behind his back once more. "You have answered my question. I shall not tarry any longer. Go now." The old man said simply as the ranks of his guard closed about him. "Your company names are on your papers, as are your residence halls and room numbers."

And then as quickly as his vanguard had come, they once again formed into orderly lines about him and marched back into the direction of a large and imposing building that lay to the north. Darius joined the nervous throng as they followed in the wake of the armored brigade.

"They're going to the Cathedral." He overhead of the battle-scarred veterans saying. "Finally done with all that pompous talk. Was getting annoying."

"What's that?" Eager to find out more about their surroundings, the nearest candidates grouped about the older man- whose nose had been broken too many times to be recognizable, whose hair was falling in thin wisps down his weatherworn face.

"That's where the Instructors live." The man said. "Them officers in the infantry used to call it the Cathedral because that's where God dwells. Our God now, you understand?"

As he walked, Darius craned his head to look at the Cathedral, with its tall spires and buttresses reminiscent of upturned and shattered bones, the massive glass windows covered with web-like black lines. Idly, he wondered how the candidates' residence halls were going to look like. If the rest of the buildings followed Darkwill's tendency for spikes and skulls, after all, then maybe he was going to be living in a spike-filled cavernous dormitory.

His band came to a stop in front of five instructors, who were holding ledgers and inspecting papers. Darius fell in line easily, and when it was his turn, the Instructor stared at him, and then back at the ledger he held in his hands as if he wanted to check something- his age, maybe?

Darius remained silent. Would they reject him, then? Right at the gates? He had been told there would be no complaint, as long as he could stand the abuse, as long as he remained strong and focused on what he wanted. That was the Noxian ideal- at least, that was what he had been told. If they turned him away now, he did not know what he would do.

But the man did not seem to mind. He merely cocked his head to the right. "Dominance Company, of the 42nd Training Flag."

Unlike what Darius had imagined, the residence hall was an almost-mundane longhouse made of stone, slate tiles and the same spiked architecture. There were no walls inside the residence hall- only beds upon beds in two organized rows. There were two footlockers at the foot of each double bunk bed, for hygiene and personal things. There were names tacked on the bedsteads- Darius found his easy enough: it was the one closest to the bathroom. His bunkmate was a long-nosed man named Lazare, of the House of Richelieu- but as soon as he discovered that Darius had no House name, he had ceased talking to him and busied himself with preparing his things.

_That's fine._ Darius thought to himself as he stowed his canvas bag under the bed.

A glance about the room showed many impatient faces, but out of all of them- only Darius, a veteran named Seamus and Keiran Darkwill himself were deep in thought. It was odd feeling, being amongst people who never were supposed to be his peers, but Darius didn't care for them. He only wanted to learn. It seemed as if Seamus and Keiran were thinking the same way- they busied themselves with unpacking, and hardly talked to anyone else.

"Form ranks, you worthless bags of meat!" Came a sudden deep booming howl. "Form ranks or I'll flay your hide until you bleed from your eyes!"

Suddenly, everything was _moving_. Darius clipped another candidate in the eye as he made a mad dash for the front of his bunk, and he did his best to stand at attention by mimicking Seamus off to his far right. They were a ragtag bunch, all of them. Some were slouching. Others simply didn't seem to care- but the moment **she** came, they all found themselves standing a little straighter- and quaking in their boots.

A woman wearing a high collared black dress coat that bore dual rows of polished buttons with a gold and red ceremonial braid and triple bars on her shoulders entered the longhouse. She wore black knee high leather boots with a single bloody stripe down the sides, - signifying her seniority and her authority. Her hands were covered by imposing gauntlets laden with glowing runic sigils. She was beautiful, in a cold and savage way. Her platinum hair was bound in a neat bun- there were no stray strands on her face. He could tell from the lines on her brow and on her cheeks that she was at least twenty years older than he was, if not more. She did not have a sword by her side like the armored behemoths who had divided the crowd earlier. Instead, two supple black leather harnesses crossed over her waist, holding obsidian daggers that glowed with a red malevolent light.

"Candidates of Dominance Company, I bid you all welcome to Boram's Point." She had a ferocious gleam to her grey eyes and a sort of displeased snarl on her features as she began to pace up and down the aisle. "My name is Suzanne, of the House of Castellamonte. You will address me as Chief Instructor di Castellamonte, Ma'm di Castellamonte or Chief di Castellamonte. Whatever orders the Commander sees fit to pass upon you, I will carry out with conviction. Do not mistake my gender for a weakness- you will die. I have spent twenty-three years here, and I will not tolerate disrespect from any one of you. There are no exceptions to this rule."

Her voice was oddly hoarse. No doubt she had to work to make herself heard. Her hands were at her back so that she seemed to be _more_ than everyone else around her, and she cocked her head to two other similarly dressed but less-decorated men next to her. Her awe-inspiring presence was such that even Darius hadn't noticed the two of them until she had made them look.

"Assisting me is James, of the House of Krieg-Windsor, and William, of the House of Strongbow. You will address them as Senior Instructor Krieg-Windsor and Assistant Instructor Strongbow only. I will expect you to show them the same respect that you are obligated to show me."

William Strongbow was red-haired and young but his sharp green eyes showed nothing but frost. He was clearly an archer. If his House name was not an indication of his prowess, his right arm was- in the way of men who have held back seventy pounds of force using only two fingers, his right arm bulkier than his left. He bore an unstrung ebony bow, also shining with elaborate runes, inside a quiver of black-fletched arrows.

The other man, James Krieg-Windsor, was gray-haired, blue-eyed and jagged as the wasteland around them. He had a patch over his eye and a gruesome scar on the left side of his face that twisted the rest of his face into a permanent and disturbing snarl. He was leaning on a battle hammer, and like the rest of the other two instructors, it was made of the blackest obsidian and laden with yellow runes that quivered and glowed like fireflies.

"Make no mistake, candidates." Chief Instructor di Castellamonte said dispassionately. "**I** am your premier instructor, and within these walls, I am **omnipotent**. I will be at your side during your waking hours; I will be in your minds during your hard-earned rest. I will be the voice in your head when you think, and I will never, _ever_ permit you to forget the principles that we seek to imbue within you."

She cast them all a snide glance, and Darius found her staring at him as she continued to speak. Out of respect, he kept his eyes straight at the wall. "You will abide here for four years of your miserable lives. By the end of your stay, you will have the ability to coerce strength from troops who have none. You will know battlefield tactics kept secret from the rest of the world. You will be a typhoon of blood and flames on the battlefield, a storm of ruthlessness and pure unadulterated power. You will be ready to dominate those who dare to oppose us: the worthless fools of Demacia, Ionia, Piltover- even the warrior-recluse society at the slopes of Mount Targon- but only _if_ you survive."

Her pacing had reached nigh hypnotic levels as she swaggered back and forth through the single aisle in the hall. "There are approximately a thousand of you hopefuls. A thousand children who dream of becoming an officer within the glorious Noxian military- but by the time your second year ends, I, and the rest of your instructors, will have weeded out the weak-minded, faint-hearted and physically unfit- through a rite of passage here that all must undergo. We call it The Crucible, and like the tool, it shall test you in the most painful and unimaginable ways possible."

Chief di Castellamonte was still speaking, though she was getting hoarser every second. "Forever strong. That is our nation's creed, and if you step out of these gates again after four years here, you will have it engraved on your very **bones**." She thumped a gauntleted fist to her chest determinedly.

There was silence for a while, as she scanned the ranks. Those who held her gaze were immediately set upon by Strongbow and Krieg-Windsor, dragged screaming outside and thrown onto the sharp black soil. Wanting to remain in the program, Darius kept his eyes pinned at the wall. Three already gone from their little company, and it was only the first day.

"Looking at me in the eyes, as an **equal** would-" Chief di Castellamonte spat. "As you can see, is a cardinal sin. One of many you may perform- and pay for with your blood. Remember candidates that disrespect given will be disrespect returned, and I must tell you that Assistant Instructor Strongbow excels at punitive measures. I care not for your Houses," She continued. "I care not for eventual retribution at the wave of a quill. I am your Chief Instructor, and I am **law**. You have read your papers; you have signed your names- you know that you are all utterly _mine_."

What she would say next would stay with Darius for the rest of his life. "I will not deny that I am from a noble House, but I have **earned** my right to wear my name. Most of you have not yet been sorely tested. Most of you ride on the bones of your ancestors, on the ghostly whispers of their strengths and their achievements. You will not use their names here."

Most of the people she had alluded to kept their eyes front, but there were a few who glared back at her, mouths twisting in rage at the affront to their family's prestige. Yet again, the two men darted in, hitting offenders with the backs of their gauntleted hands and sending blood on the floor.

There was a smug note in her voice as she stared at the groaning forms on the floor. "Always remember, candidates, that within the walls of Boram's Point, you are all equally worthless until you prove yourselves to your fellow candidates, to your senior instructors, to your Commander, and to _me_."

Darius felt elated beyond belief. All of them, considered as _equal_- untainted by House, by affiliation, by origin. He didn't mind that she had just called him worthless- compared to her, he probably was nothing but another name on her ledger, a bunch of letters to be crossed out as soon as he failed their tests. To say that they would be equal, that no influence would be exercised from the outside world- it was music to a hunted man's ears. He must've smiled then, because Strongbow had suddenly appeared by his side, daring him to act in any way that would displease their _god_. Quickly, Darius stifled the expression, and returned to watching the wall. Seemingly satisfied, Assistant Instructor Strongbow retreated.

"Candidates, I have told you about disrespect. I have told you about arrogance. I will tell you now about cowardice." Her rough voice seemed to bounce off the walls. "What is cowardice?" She stopped in the middle of the longhouse, her hands clasped behind her back as Commander de Montfort had done only minutes earlier. "Cowardice is indecision. Cowardice is the inability to act. Cowardice is to turn your head away, to hide, to run. To give in to cowardice is to **insult** me, and I will drive my **knife** into your heart the moment you do."

"How do you succeed then, in a place such as this?" She seemed to read their minds as a master puppeteer would see the strings of his dolls. "Where you are punished for looking back at me, where you are subjected to physical pain at the very first instance?"

"If you are strong," She held out her gauntleted hand and closed it into a fist. The runes on the black metal blazed to life. "If you are driven, if you are obedient, you will **pass**. You will **survive**- but what point is there to surviving? What point is there to merely _pass_? In a place such as this, there is always the longer route, the most rewarding path- and that will only open to you if you give me your **soul**."

The atmosphere of the longhouse was like a meadow bracing for an incoming thunderstorm. Heavy and absolutely frightening as she continued her speech. "If you give me everything you **are**, I will give you glory. I will take you and mold you to be the finest warrior on the face of this pathetic earth- but only if everything you do, you will do for **me**, for your Commander and for Noxus itself."

She let her words soak in their minds. All they had to do, then, was to give everything they had to her.

It was a price Darius would pay, gladly.

"Shall we start today?" She asked them all.

"Yes." He found himself answering. As he filed out with the rest of the recruits, he discovered that Lazare de Richelieu had been one of the people who had stared at Chief di Castellamonte.

Lazare had looked upon the face of a god, and for his transgression, he, and his things, were nowhere to be seen.

* * *

**Author's Note:** There is just so much badassery going on here, I don't even. What I really like about this though is that even though it's conversation-heavy, it still somehow manages to drive the point home: Noxus is a nation of warriors, and as a nation of warriors, they would not accept failure or cowardice in any shape or form.


	9. The Room Is Too Quiet

**[THE ROOM IS TOO QUIET]**

_How gray and hard the brown feet of the wretched of the earth._

_How confidently the crippled from birth_

_push themselves through the streets, deep in their lives._

_How seamed with lines of fate the hands_

_of women who sit at streetcorners_

_offering seeds and flowers._

_How lively their conversation together._

_How much of death they know._

_I am tired of 'the fine art of unhappiness.'_

**The Wealth of the Destitute (Denise Levertov)**

* * *

**SIX MONTHS LATER...**

It had been a full six months since Darius had entered the walls of Boram's Point, and it had been everything he had expected. From Monday to Saturday, the schedule was written in stone: morning training took place even before breakfast, composed of a myriad of exercises: at one point the regimen had been lifting entire tree trunks and jogging with it on their shoulders through valleys and deceptively shallow rivers. Breakfast was whatever was available in the mess at the time, and for such an expensive school, the food was still classically military: something that looked like meat mixed in brownish-orange thick sauce, or a rubbery substance that didn't look at all different from a block of fish food covered with yellow strips of what he had been told was 'cheese'.

Whatever it was, he learned to eat it, and he learned to keep it down through the afternoon weapons training. The lessons that Sion had seen fit to give him with regards to the bearded axe helped somewhat, but he still struggled when it came to combat practice. Everyone else seemed to know more than he did, and he was sent to the infirmary to be patched up more times than anyone else in his company.

Lessons took place on Sundays, inside the classrooms and in chairs that seemed to be older than he was. He had difficulty understanding everything that was being said at first, because he had not been to school as the more-well off candidates had. Reading became something of a chore that gave him a headache whenever the letters were too small; writing had made his hand and wrist ache. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't fully understand whatever it was his instructors had talked about, but he did his best even if everyone else in his company was already three topics ahead.

In the one hour that was given to him for personal time in the evenings after the instructors had beaten on every muscle and every bone, he spent it in the library learning to read and write, or in the Wolf's Pit figuring out how to fight properly. There never seemed to be enough time for anything; the instructors kept them on a hurried pace at all times, screaming abuse in their ears and cuffing candidates with the backs of their gauntleted hands whenever they found something unpleasant. Lagging in coursework and in the Pit, Darius wasn't exempted from their blows either- the particularly favorite insult that Chief di Castellamonte used was that he was a very tall and a very wide stack of excrement that didn't deserve to be walking around.

Thankfully, at the third month of their first year, theory gave way to application and Darius started to shine. He understood military tactics better than his peers, primarily because he could place himself in the shoes of their imaginary battalions, could account for seemingly abstract concepts like weather, exhaustion, hunger and the toll that a steep slope took on a man's back. What he knew was hard work, not politics, not history- he knew exactly how it felt to work without sleep, to perform ably without food, and already he was beginning to develop his brand of tactics, favoring one decisive strike over a long and tiring campaign.

His coursework was still not quite up to par, but he had learned how to talk properly by then, and his mistakes were not quite as apparent. He discovered that nobles had a specific manner of saying things, and that one did not just walk up to others and tell them how much of a '_fuckhead'_ they were. No, there was a specific way for everything and everyone, and even though Darius felt a little dishonest with himself, he acquired their mannerisms easier than he learned how to spell 'tactical reconnaissance'.

On the first day, three candidates had already been cycled out of their little company- to where, he had no idea. Six months later, it seemed as if only he, Keiran Darkwill and Seamus were constants inside Dominance company- everyone else had been cycled out at one point in time, and then replaced. He didn't know where the new people had come from; they had simply appeared after the unlucky person had been thrown out- sometimes quite literally, as Assistant Instructor Strongbow had a tendency to break windows whenever he sent a candidate flying off into the dirt.

If he had been the prying sort, Darius would have asked them where they had come from- but he was not a gossiping fishwife and he had no intention of ever being called one, so he had kept his silence and had treated every single new candidate as if they had always been there. It was easier to not think of where they had come from. In the way that military life forces one to restrict one's view of the outside world, their company seemed to live in its own little bubble.

Sometimes, they had come across other training companies on the way to the mess hall for their meals, but for the most part the instructors had kept them in their units, preventing them from interacting with the other flags. It was with surprise then, after Senior Instructor Krieg-Windsor had smashed a candidate's nose into a pulp, that Darius finally saw Lazare de Richelieu again.

He couldn't resist then, because Lazare had been removed on day one. That evening instead of reviewing a large sheaf of combat logs as he had planned to, he tapped on the underside of Lazare's bunker and was rewarded when the man leaned over and stared at him upside-down.

"What?"

"What happened to you?" Darius asked him.

Lazare cast a glance at the ever watchful Assistant Instructor Strongbow standing duty by the door of the longhouse and then shook his head, retreating back to his bunk and leaving Darius utterly consumed by his curiosity.

The next morning- it was a Sunday- proceeded as always. It was the height of summer and hardly anyone wanted to go to the field- even Instructor Strongbow looked as if he was going to kill someone when he was outdoors. The great paneled windows of their lecture hall were wide open, and Chief di Castellamonte was running over the considerations involved in an attack as she on the raised wooden platform in front of them. She was dressed in her high-collared black uniform as always- how she managed to not sweat was beyond him- and was using a riding crop to beat their knuckles raw or to give someone a bloody cheek in between tapping the board and grimacing at their answers.

"The Megling commandos of Bandle City," She gave the chalkboard behind her a solid thwack. "and certain special forces units from Piltover utilize long-range rifles in order to do their dirty work. Their technology enables them to create rifles that fire faster and farther than our bowmen. We are, of course, in the process of eliminating that weakness by augmenting Zaunite technology into our armies but even with advanced weaponry, without tactics you will be nothing."

She drew a diagram on the board-Darius recognized it immediately as a battalion movement to contact diagram. It was easy to see where the Noxian troops were- they were the little squares appropriately given infantry markings. There was a square on some mountainous terrain that she was currently tapping on. "Assume that this is a Yordle gunner regiment. What considerations are there for this assault?"

"Casualties, Chief Instructor." Darius answered her.

"Of course there are going to be casualties." Came her acidic retort. "The question is, candidate, how can you reduce these inevitable casualties? How many men will still be able to fight following the initial volley?"

The answer for the first question was right in his handbook, but it was the second question that made him furrow his brow in confusion as he checked the diagram again. She hadn't put any troop numbers- how could he give her an estimate?

"Chief Instructor," He began hesitantly. "There are no troop numbers."

She made a derisive snort. "And your point is, candidate?"

Darius would have stared at her as if she was insane, but then again she was their god and he was not allowed to show her disrespect unless he wanted to suffer horribly. "Chief Instructor," He tried again, slowly and as politely as he could manage. "How may this candidate estimate casualties without knowing how many troops this candidate has on the field?"

She got off the platform, and Darius felt fear stirring in his gut as she walked towards him. Her booted heels took her next to his desk, and his mind was going insane with fear and uncertainty. Should he look at her? Should he answer the first question instead? What was he supposed to do?

"Believe it or not, candidate, that question is asked even by the best commanders." She gave him a light touch with the riding crop, and he suppressed the urge to flinch as his knuckles screamed at him.

She spared him the effort and pushed his head up herself using the tip of the crop. "Assume that I am not here, that you are in the field of battle right at this moment. You had been told that there would be reinforcements, but the fog of war has settled and you are not entirely certain of your numbers anymore. How many casualties will you incur if you decide to assault the Megling gunners?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lazare de Richelieu eyeing him with something like expectation. Seamus was looking at him with a sort of 'better-you-than-me' sympathy in his eyes. Oddly enough, everyone else in the room- and they had been the newer ones who had been cycled in recently- were also staring at him as if they were expecting something to happen.

Her question was confusing enough that he wasn't quite certain what he was supposed to say anymore. First he had been asked how to reduce casualties on the field, and now he was supposed to give an educated guess on how many people he was inevitably going to lose to some imaginary assault. With the seconds ticking away, he panicked and tried to answer the first question instead.

"Chief Instructor," He tried to make his voice stronger than his roiling gut. "When under fire from ranged weaponry, casualties increase in direct proportion to the amount of time soldiers spend exposed, and multiplied by the intensity of the enemy fire. To reduce casualties effectively, commanders must reduce the amount of time spent under fire and weaken the intensity of the fire."

"Straight from the handbook," She said with an amused look on her face. "Do you memorize it like the Measured Tread, candidate?"

"Chief Instructor?" Darius asked her uncertainly. He honestly didn't know what that was.

"The Measured Tread is the little propaganda booklet that every single Demacian is issued during their service." She reached into her coat and withdrew a bloodstained little book, about the size of a pamphlet and about as thick as one of his manuals. "They memorize it, cover-to-cover, filling their heads with lies and disgusting altruism. It also makes for an excellent trophy."

She practically threw it onto his desk with a sound so loud that everyone except the instructors themselves flinched, and then used the riding crop to direct his gaze down at the Measured Tread. It had a couple of loose pages and looked so old that the blood was practically staining it brown.

"So did you memorize our handbook, candidate?" She practically spat at him.

He couldn't lie to her. "Yes, Chief Instructor." He said somewhat shamefully. Memorizing their books had been the only way for him to catch up at one point. In the typical way of students that wanted to do their hardest but could not for various reasons, he did understand some of what he had put in his head but most of what he had read was still a giant question inside his head that had to be explained.

"And do you believe every single word in it?" Her words puzzled him. _Believe_? Since when did believing in anything happen in Noxus? He knew the value of the strategies in his handbook- that was why he was careful to memorize the different diagrams, that was why he could recognize an ambush from a raid.

"The words within the handbook are established military tactics, Chief Instructor." He replied carefully, not wanting to be caught out more than he already was. "This candidate feels that… _believing_ in the text is a useless endeavor."

"Oh, do you?" Her voice was almost motherly, if it wasn't for the fact he could see that she had that gleam in her eye that screamed at him to run away now. "Let me make my accusation clearer, candidate: I'm asking you if you believe in the handbook like some weakling Demacian believes in the Measured Tread."

_It was a trap_, he decided, _but I'm not going to admit to anything._

"The Measured Tread is a book of propaganda that has no bearing at all during combat, Chief Instructor. This candidate believes in the tactics espoused inside the handbook and not in useless values like justice or mercy."

She drew back her fist- thankfully she didn't have her gauntlet on- and then demolished his nose. He barely had time to register the pain before hands pulled him from his chair, curling underneath his arms and keeping him prisoner. As the blood blossomed all over his shirt and pain filled his senses enough that he was practically motionless from the sensory overload, he could dimly see that he was being forcibly dragged away from the lecture hall.

Dripping blood, he stared blearily at the ceiling and then watched the world tumble around him as pain began to wrack the rest of his body- whoever was holding onto him had thrown him out, and coming from the lecture hall it was a long way down ten stone steps. The slope wasn't bad enough that he broke anything on the way out, but then again he wasn't going to get up anytime soon either. He managed to sit up after an hour spent clamping his shirt over his broken nose, but that was the only thing he could do before a black bag fell over his head and then he felt a rope tie constrict around his neck.

_Oh, I'm going to be hanged._ He thought with the nonchalance of someone who had given himself up to whatever fate wanted to do with him, and then he suppressed the urge to laugh at the irony of everything- his parents had tried to stop him from being guillotined, but apparently a hanging would do, even if it was delayed.

But the rope never tightened enough to kill him, or even to knock him out. Instead, it served more as a way to keep the bag on his head as he was pulled to his feet and then pushed into walking. He didn't know how far he went. He only knew that he was outside at one point, and then he was pushed into something- a bed?

The bag was taken off his head, and then he found himself looking up at a stern-faced hospitalman he didn't recognize in a room that was too bright and too white to be in Noxus. As his eyes adjusted to the amount of light in the room, he could see that he was in the infirmary again, and that the walls were as grey as they always had been.

"Am I dead?" Darius felt he had to ask.

The other man erupted into a guffaw as he considered Darius' broken nose and the growing angry bruises on his skin. "Aren't you a real piece of work? No, but gods above, did that batty old woman give you a beating. I keep telling them to take it easy."

The insult to his god thrown on the table, Darius wondered what would happen if he tried to defend her from the hospitalman. Was he even expected to defend her? Unsure, and still filled with so much pain that all he wanted to do was sleep, he merely stared at the other man in utter bemusement.

"Am I going to be cut from the program then?" He asked instead, choosing to ignore the man's jab at Chief di Castellamonte.

"No, you're not going to be cut from the program. This is part of the program." Was the man's exasperated comment as he busied himself with retrieving supplies from a nearby cabinet.

Darius couldn't help but stare at him in confusion again- _part_ of the program?

"Welcome to Boram's Point." The hospitalman replied sardonically to his questioning stare as he dabbed away at Darius' nose with a cloth. "Where we beat the life out of you and then-"

"Don't tell him anything," Strongbow's voice came from the right. Shying away from the hospitalman's cloth-wielding hands, Darius turned his head and watched as the Assistant Instructor placed a footlocker down on the floor- his footlocker?

_They work fast,_ he thought blearily.

"Good morning, Assistant Instructor." The greeting automatically came from Darius' mouth- even if Strongbow probably was the one to throw him out; he still knew that the man had to be addressed politely. He didn't want to make his grave any deeper.

"If you don't tell them anything, you get idiots like this thinking that they're already dead when it's their turn to be cycled." The hospitalman replied wryly as he cocked his head at Darius' direction.

Strongbow looked like he was suppressing the urge to laugh himself.

"A bit dramatic, aren't you, candidate?" Was Strongbow's reply.

"No sir." Darius replied immediately.

"One mark of disobedience merits one cycle spent in punishment." Strongbow said to him as he gestured to his footlocker. "Immediately after you are discharged from this medical wing, you are henceforth reassigned to Adamant Company, under the 39th Training Flag."

He was being reassigned? There were _other_ flags? He didn't quite know what to say, and even if he did want to talk, the hospitalman was still busy with his nose. Instead he merely gave the instructor a nod and then tried not to think about how he was the person being cycled out this time.

"It's only you and Seamus left. We managed Keiran yesterday." Strongbow saw fit to tell him. "You're a hard one to catch, candidate."

Yesterday- he remembered that Keiran had said one wrong word during cadence as they had marched across the barren plains. By the time Krieg-Windsor had stopped pummeling him, Keiran had been holding onto his shattered cheekbone and was in the process of grimly spitting out one bloody tooth. He had been cycled out after that field exercise, and the new man who replaced him still had a bandage over a cut on his forehead.

As it was, Darius took Strongbow's compliment like anyone who had just been thrown out of a lecture hall and then praised for being so hard to throw out in the first place would- he gave a somewhat goofy bloody smile that made him look more frightening rather than grateful as the blood flowed liberally down his face. "Thank you, sir."

"You won't be thanking me later." Strongbow replied frankly, with the look of someone who was used to having people screaming in his face that he had lied to them. "You will have medical rest for one day before I formally take you to the 39th's billet, candidate. Use it well."

"May this candidate spend that day practicing in the Pit, sir?" He asked the hospitalman almost childishly. The man stared at him as if he had just asked to consume his first born child.

"You just got thrashed." The hospitalman said slowly and skeptically. "And you want to go to the Pit to _fight_?"

"To practice, sir." Darius corrected him.

The hospitalman threw a glance at Strongbow as if he had wanted to say that Darius was out of his mind. For his part, the archer took one look at Darius, at the way the candidate was shifting in his bed and staring out the window wistfully, and then shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, can he?" Strongbow tilted his head at the medic.

"You just threw him down some stairs and had that insane spinster smash his nose-" The hospitalman replied acidly. "And now you're asking _me_ if he can fight? Why don't you just send him off to the Maw and let him **die**? I wouldn't have to waste supplies on him."

Strongbow gave him a veiled smile.

The hospitalman made a frustrated noise and stared at the ceiling in askance. "What is the point of patching him up then?"

"To annoy you." Strongbow retorted.

"Very _funny_, Strongbow." The hospitalman snapped back. "I'm laughing so hard I'm going to spit my lungs in your face."

Strongbow clapped Darius on the shoulder, which hurt because he had landed on that side badly, but the show of support felt good. "The candidate knows his limits and he wants to break them, don't you, candidate?"

"Yes sir." Darius replied like a wind-up doll.

The hospitalman shook his head and growled under his breath as he turned to treating Darius' nose again. "_Whatever_, it's not like I'm the one that's going to die. I'll sign his clearance, you sadomasochist bastards, and then I'll see you in hell."

"Thank you, sir." Darius repeated, even as he was wondering how in nine hells was the man managing to get away with such disrespect. He probably had some sort of immunity because he was a hospitalman and was part of the staff.

Darius was still aching all over, but Strongbow had effectively just given him one day to himself- and he planned on taking advantage of it. As soon as the hospitalman had signed his clearance, he was accompanied by Strongbow outside. His heading was a newer looking but no less austere longhouse on the other side of the grounds to leave his things in before he was released.

As Darius hauled his own footlocker under the fierce heat of the sun, the Assistant Instructor told him what awaited him.

"As our _esteemed_ hospitalman informed you, moving candidates such as yourself through the companies is a part of the program- it's a lesson on how to adapt in a new unit." The archer batted away a gnat that was annoying him. "And it helps to keep the companies varied- we can't have too many nobles in a single place. They'd kill each other in their sleep."

Panting like a dog in the heat, Darius gave a nod as he moved the large crate's center mass from one arm to the other. "May this candidate inquire why it must be Adamant Company?"

"You may. Adamant Company was a problem company. We had to separate two of the unholy terrors because one of them tried to kill the other with a knife." Strongbow replied.

"But it is acceptable for them to die on the grounds, sir." Darius suggested to him as he wiped sweat off his brow and adjusted his grip on his things. "It was in the recruitment papers."

Strongbow chuckled. "During training, it is _perfectly_ acceptable. In fact, I'd rather have an _unfortunate_ accident. I wouldn't be wasting so much time and effort in preventing them from having paltry squabbles."

_If you'd rather have an accident, then why would you cycle me into their unit?_ Darius mentally asked him. As it was, he merely gave the instructor a quizzical look, and Strongbow practically rolled his eyes as if he was talking about something even a child would know. A child born into nobility probably would have, but not a child born in poverty.

"You must remember, candidate, that these unpleasant children are usually the direct heirs of House heads." Strongbow stated with a patient look on his face. "If one of them decides to kill another candidate, and if that candidate _also_ happens to be an heir or someone very dear to an influential person, the feud will spread to their Houses and then Noxus will have a very large problem in its hands. To prevent a slow fall of the city-state, you're going to replace the troublemaker, and then it will be Chief di Castellamonte's solemn duty- for the lack of a better word- to beat the arrogance out of him. It's as simple as that."

_Oh, politics again,_ Darius thought disgustedly as he walked on, grey dust kicked up from his booted feet. _I hate politics._

"I keep forgetting that you don't have the blood in you." Strongbow mused out loud after they had walked for some time. "You've improved your accent and your grammar, it's really quite amazing."

"Thank you, sir." Darius repeated. The compliment had been a backhanded one, but he still felt good about it.

"Their petty rivalries won't be a bother for you." The instructor gave him a sideways glance. "I know you've been sponsored by the House of Swain. They're all from the lesser Houses and they know better than to irk Thorvald's favorite."

"Is it really that important, sir? The House of Swain?" Darius asked him. For all the prominence that the House of Swain had, any of his attempts at finding out exactly what the House did to deserve the honor of being named had failed miserably.

"What _hole_ did you crawl out of?" The nobleman asked him with an incredulous look on his face before it occurred to him that yes, Darius did indeed crawl out of a hole- out of Sublevel 12 to be more precise. "Ah- damn it all. What the House of Swain stands for is nothing you should worry your peasant head about."

"Sir." Darius responded purely because he didn't know what else he could say. "This candidate would be under another Chief Instructor?"

"Indeed. Your new Chief Instructor will be Alexander, of the House of Croix. The Senior Instructor is Iohann, of the House of Clausen, and the Assistant Instructor is Nikett, of the House of Mohren." The House name made the young man stop in his tracks. Puzzled, Strongbow stared at him in askance.

"Is there a problem, candidate?" Strongbow tilted his head.

"This candidate must inform the Assistant Instructor that this candidate has a feud with the House of Croix, sir." There wasn't any point in hiding it- if he did, then who knew what Alexander de Croix would be able to do with him.

His instructor looked at him skeptically. "A commoner like you? What did you do? Did you climb into his house and steal a vase?"

"This candidate killed his younger brother, sir." Darius gritted out.

Strongbow frowned at him when he remembered which brother it was. "Adrian." He said simply, and Darius gave him a nod.

"Ah, damn." The instructor muttered under his breath as he stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowed in thought. "Well, that complicates matters. We were hoping that you were just some irrelevant chaff that Thorvald saw some promise in- so you're _that_ Darius."

There were many problems with having no House name to call one's own, and the worst of them was that names were simply not as unique as one would think- unless one was called Heimerdinger, which is a very unique name in itself. Unfortunately, 'Darius' was a very common name in Noxus, and while his deeds had made him notorious amongst the Noxian nobility even as a young man, not many people actually knew what he looked like.

His reputation preceding him, Darius stood in the heat cradling his footlocker as the instructor tapped at his lip and mumbled things under his breath. Watching him think, it occurred to the fourteen year old that he had never seen Strongbow look so _human_.

Strongbow had always been an omnipotent, frightening figure with a heavy hand and extraordinary hearing to Darius. Now he was a person who seemed to have an acidic sense of humor, who knew the intricacies of inter-House politics as easy as a fish would take to water- seeing as Strongbow belonged to a House, the latter wasn't that surprising at all.

"Sir?" Darius ventured, after what seemed like the fifth time that Strongbow had shaken his head.

"Damn it all, it's always too complicated… Just remember that this arrangement is temporary." Strongbow said finally as he gave him a nudge, urging him to walk faster. "That's all I can tell you, candidate. I'll inform Chief di Castellamonte and Commander de Montfort of your predicament."

"Yes sir."

The rest of their walk proceeded in a sort of forced silence, and when he had settled his footlocker in front of his new bunk bed, Strongbow informed him that he was free to do whatever he pleased.

"You'll be fine." Strongbow had said, but the hollow reassurance seemed more for the archer's own benefit. It seemed that even the other Houses knew just how vengeful the House of Croix was. "He can't exactly kill you."

"Yes sir." Darius had tried not to think of how his life was going to become more miserable, had tried not to think of the many ways that Alexander could beat his face into the dirt and get away with it.

"Don't fall on a sword when you're in the Pit." Even Darius could tell what he was implying: _don't give Alexander any chance to kill you and make your death look like an accident._

"This candidate uses an axe." He had replied.

"Don't fall on an axe then." Strongbow had said before he left.

As Darius had stated, he spent the rest of his free day sweating in the Wolf's Pit, mastering the bearded axe. It was different from his father's battle-axe in that one side was longer than the other, enabling him to hold it on the haft right behind the cutting edge.

In the future, he would become so skilled so as to be able to use it like a surgeon would use his scalpel, but this was a good ten years before, and he was still getting used to the weight and the feel of the weapon in his hands. Indeed, his palms and fingers showed signs of abuse- the axe handle was rough, and the large thing kept slipping up and down his palms. He would learn to wear leather gloves in order to negotiate the slip, but as of now he tolerated the burning feeling on his skin and tried not to think of the rawness of his flesh.

There were many reasons why he took the bearded axe: it was cheaper to have a bearded axe forged, and he liked the fact that he could use the longer edge to pull objects out of people's hands- eventually, this mastery would spread to pulling entire bodies. The chief reason, however, was that he felt that his father's double-headed axe was too unwieldy. He could have been the spitting image of his father if he had eaten well, but hardship and a good five years of passing most of his food to Draven had made him smaller and thinner compared to his sire. The bearded axe, then, was a way for him to salute the man's memory but at the same time give himself a way to forge his own path.

As he pushed yet another mauled practice dummy into the shade of a nearby shed, he spied movement out of the corner of his eye and blinked in surprise when he saw that it was the hospitalman. There was a large canvas bag by the man's side and he was watching him from one of the many seats on the granite grandstand. Now that they were outside, Darius could see that the man had short, cropped blonde hair and blue eyes. He was broad shouldered, with a lean and wiry build that spoke more of being quick rather than being strong. Unlike everyone else in the academy that wore high-collared black dress coats, he was wearing a simple white collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up against the heat, and a pair of black pants and black standard issue military boots.

"Good afternoon sir." Darius greeted automatically. The hospitalman frowned, pushed himself off his seat, and marched up to him, his boots crunching on the black volcanic sand.

"Sir?" Darius tried.

"You're an idiot, candidate." Was the man's acerbic reply as he held out his hands.

"Sir." Darius repeated, not wanting to insult him unless he wanted to have more trouble.

"Your hands, you moron." The hospitalman responded. "Give me your hands."

Darius held his hands out obediently, and the hospitalman made a tch'ing noise as he looked over the raw and slowly bleeding flesh.

"It's idiots like you," He said as he reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of ointment. "That make my life harder."

"This candidate doesn't quite understand what you mean, sir." Darius replied. He ignored the sting of the medicine on his palms as the hospitalman bound the treated flesh in bandages.

"Oh enough with that 'this candidate' nonsense, you sound like a schizophrenic. What I mean to say is that I hate _this_." The hospitalman gestured around him. "All this masochistic, 'I'm strong enough to do this', sort of crap. I thought I saw enough of that in the capital but this academy is just _full_ of it."

"Strength above all, sir." Darius echoed the adage like a schoolboy holding onto a cardinal rule.

"Oh ha-ha, channeling the insane spinster, that's _nice_." The man muttered under his breath. "Look, candidate, the reason why people like _me_ exist on this earth is because there are idiots like _you_ that think they can shrug off a fall and a couple of broken bones in an hour. If you were a Rakkor, sure, I'd let you- but you're not. You're Noxian and that means I have to stop you from being an idiot."

Darius blinked and tilted his head. It was true that he had thought about that- and he did still feel like he wanted to sleep, but he had an entire day to himself and he wanted to better his fighting skills. "But I feel fine, sir."

"No you're not, you're panting like a dog and you're going to fall over from heat exhaustion if you don't hydrate." The man pulled out a flask from his bag and held it out. "And you know I'm right. You're a worker, like I am."

Gratefully, he took the flask and drank deeply. The summer heat had taken its toll on him, but he was so close to mastering a new technique with his axe that he didn't think about anything else. Now that he was drinking water, he found that his throat had become so dry that drinking something hurt him.

"I've seen a minotaur drink like that." The hospitalman said with a chuckle when Darius passed the flask back with a murmured and polite 'thank you'. "What do you think you're doing here, huh?"

"I was trying to see how I could better utilize the axe, sir." Darius admitted as he gestured to the practice dummy in the shade. The thing's straw limbs had been slashed at so many times there were only tufts left. "I felt that with enough practice, I could try and disable the opponent."

"Stop thinking like you're holding a sword then." The hospitalman replied candidly as he regarded Darius' work. "Going away at it like that- you might as well just pick up a claymore or a couple of little knives."

"Sir." Darius said respectfully. "What do you suggest?"

"If you intend on disabling your opponent, you might want to target their tendons and their arteries instead." The man replied wryly. "It'll make your life easier."

"Tendons and arteries, sir?" Darius echoed in confusion.

"Ah, right. I keep forgetting that you Noxians have a problem with education, which is sort of alright given that you're going to be an infantry commander with no brains like the rest of them- a stack of meat with an axe." The man said disgustedly. "Not like Piltover- now that's a place with medical training aplenty. Pull out a dummy, candidate, I'll teach you how the average human body works."

"You've been to Piltover, sir?" The concept of an outside world was still alien to him. He ignored the insult and did as he was told.

"I was born in Piltover." The hospitalman admitted as Darius pulled a dummy out for him to inspect. "I've been to Ionia and Bilgewater. I haven't been to Demacia since I changed my citizenship. There's something about Noxians that they don't like."

"You _came_ to Noxus?" Darius asked him, finding the concept of someone actually trading in their citizenship to become a Noxian puzzling.

"I came to _Zaun_. Piltover revoked my license after I killed someone." The man corrected him. "And when I treated one of your own, eventually they just pulled me in. I know you're a land of warriors, but it would be nice to _not_ be the only intelligent life form capable of treating wounds within miles, hm?"

When the dummy was laid out on the ground, the hospitalman gestured to the various places where veins and muscles could be disabled. "Morons like you; you go straight for the chest or for the arms. It's fine if you just want to kill them by clawing them to death but if you really, really want to kill someone, you take your time with what you know, candidate."

He prodded the sides of the dummy's neck. "Carotid, jugular. Cut deep enough and they'll exsanguinate in two minutes but duck your head because it'll squirt in your eyes if you cut in. Femoral," And the man prodded at the inside of the dummy's legs. "Ligaments on the knees, that helps you walk so you can cut into that and watch them flop on the floor while they bleed out."

He pulled the dummy's torso up so Darius could see where he laid his fingers on. "Cephalic vein on the arm, easily seen, easily severed and not a lot of people wear chainmail that far- only the really rich ones do. Basilic vein here on the shoulder, if the poor fuck isn't wearing any armor; it's pretty easy to get to. One jab, maybe two. Don't waste your time making yourself feel better with a lot of tiny scratches, candidate. You get to the point and then you watch them bleed out."

They went over the specifics of how to murder someone very slowly for the rest of the afternoon. Darius had initially struggled over the concept of 'veins' and 'arteries' and the differences between them before the hospitalman called him an idiot and told him to look it up in the library. When the theory-crafting was done, the hospitalman had him pull a dummy out and then practically beat the names of the blood vessels and nerve pathways into his head until Darius was quite certain he could say the words and point out the places in his sleep. Of course, improvement did not happen overnight, but the hospitalman had given him a foundation to work with, and that was the most important part of any new lesson.

"Sir," Darius said at the end of the day as they both analyzed a practice dummy. He couldn't help but ask. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because you're a moron." The hospitalman replied immediately.

Unsure if he was supposed to take the answer as it was, Darius merely stared until the hospitalman gave a sigh.

"Look," The man said very slowly, as if he was lecturing a child. "You've got the guts to be a moron out in the sun today. And I know from hearing Strongbow's stories that you've also got a good head on your shoulders. You just need a push in the right direction and I'm giving it to you."

"You've helped me more than Assistant Instructor Strongbow has, sir." Darius admitted.

"You're still a moron." The hospitalman retorted. "Just think- what did Strongbow teach you?"

Darius shrugged. "I'm not quite sure what you mean, sir."

"Look at you addressing me as 'sir' even if I'm not part of the actual training staff." The hospitalman pointed out. "Look, candidate, I'm just here to put bandages on spoiled brats but you're giving me respect and that feels sort of nice, even if it is from a pile of shit like you. What does your crazy spinster say about respect in general?"

"Disrespect given is disrespect returned." Darius echoed Chief di Castellamonte's words.

"Right, so the opposite would be: respect given is respect returned," The hospitalman pointed out. "And besides, if you died out here from heat exhaustion, they're going to kill _me_ for it because I let Strongbow pull my arm and signed your clearance like the moron I was. If _you_ stay out of shit, _I_ stay out of shit. We both get to live another day."

Darius smiled slightly and nodded. "I see."

"Well, you'd better." The hospitalman said gruffly. "You did good work today, candidate."

"Thank you, sir." It occurred to him then that he didn't know the man's name. Darius was about to open his mouth to inquire when the hospitalman extended his hand.

"Conrad." He said simply.

"No House names in Piltover, sir?" Darius couldn't resist asking as he shook the other man's hand- wincing slightly as the bandages rubbed against the raw skin. His incessant need to ask questions about the outside world would persist until adulthood- upon becoming a League champion; he would be the only Noxian curious enough to ask Sejuani about life on the tundra.

"No. There's something about Piltoveran culture about being genius enough to wipe out every other person with the name. 'Conrad' is dirt common and if I miraculously become famous, I'll just get a little tagline at the end, so fuck them." The hospitalman replied wryly. "You're due to be reassigned today, so I'd suggest you get to your new bunk before lights out."

He tried to ignore the fear stirring in his gut at the prospect of reporting in Adamant Company and forced out a good-natured smile. "Yes sir."

He didn't want to go, but he had to. He couldn't run away. It would be cowardice of the highest caliber.

As he would find out over the coming weeks, he would find that, yes, he _should_ have run away.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, his passive had to come from _somewhere-_ and given that we've established only the privileged ones get quality education in Noxus, it has to be someone from the outside. Who better to teach him how to cripple and make other people bleed out than an actual doctor (or hospitalman, seeing as it _is_ the military)?

We see another side of the instructors here- _yes_, they deal out punishments but I tried to emphasize what what they're supposed to do in the first place- which is to impart knowledge and to facilitate learning. Granted, they're also (mostly) aristocrats and they see things differently than Darius and the rest of his sponsored ilk. Instructors are human too, and we can see that Strongbow's afraid of de Croix as much as Darius is.

There's a lot of text here (7k words holy hells) but it's nice to expound on dialogue and not write a lot of third person stuff for once.


	10. Flesh and Bone

**[FLESH AND BONE]**

_Day after day breaks_

_and gives him_

_back to us_

_broken._

_Soon the husk of his knowing_

_won't know even that._

**Blood Honey (Chiana Bloch)**

* * *

**THIRTY MINUTES LATER...**

To instill zealotry in their troops, Demacia utilizes the Measured Tread and a litany of other sayings that fills one's mind with a sort of relentless altruism until one is able to vomit justice and peace across all of Runeterra- in the case of Lady Luxanna Crownguard, it was rainbows.

In Noxus, there was no need for a constant application of droning chants and memorized lines. Since birth, one is constantly taught- either by the system or by one's choices- that one must adapt or be killed, and that one must be strong to achieve what one wants. These two simple lessons prove true across the entire Noxian social strata from its highest peak to the lowest tunnel. When youths are being educated in military academies across the city-state, therefore, all the instructors need to do in order to trigger the indoctrination towards the philosophy of strength was a little push in the right direction.

It is a well-known fact in Noxus that several of the noble Houses possessed deep-rooted rivalries with each other- for whatever reasons. A lost dog was the reason behind the bad blood between the House of Castellamonte and the House of Montfort for some thirty years, while the reason for the House of Westley and the House of Strongbow's professional rivalry lay in a broken bow and a bit of wounded pride. There were a myriad of other smaller families squabbling over little things like which silk dress was better at so-and-so's garden party, but the biggest players were always the oldest and supposedly most venerable Houses, and these groups played a higher stakes game.

To wit, the House of Couteau has long been at heads with the House of Duplantier due to an accident that involved a poisoned chalice and the wrong person at the wrong event at the wrong time, while the House of Montpelier has always tried to keep its head down ever since an entire generation of their family had been wiped out by the neighboring House of Croix. Behind closed doors; the House of Swain has been biting at the heels of the House of Darkwill.

It could be said that Boram Darkwill allows the rivalries to perpetuate, as conflict would breed innovation and encourage strength in all those who play _his_ games. But of course, with a multitude of influential Houses squabbling over minor things like teacups and racehorses, how does one manage to funnel all those petty jealousies into something conductive for the state?

The solution lay within the military academies, where instructors took all that dormant hatred and used it to their advantage, molding ideal Noxian soldiers by breeding an atmosphere of competition, pitting companies populated with richer candidates against poorer ones, propagating dormant House rivalries with a quick word and a little incentive. To kill more enemies became a way to top a rival House, to earn more glory on the battlefield became a way to rise against the nobility.

Playing candidates against each other was an elaborate skill- nigh a requirement if one was to become a Chief Instructor, and Boram's Point was especially notorious due to the large number of candidates coming from the bickering Houses and from the less-fortunate Wards thanks to the sponsorship system.

Upon finding out that the other members of their training company had been sponsored or had actually _worked_ to get inside the infamous academy, blue-bloods tended to band together quickly. After all, nothing short of a Demacian insulting their ancestors bites at the aristocracy's' dignity as much as the mere _existence_ of the lower class does.

In order to avoid such a thing from happening, it was something of a tradition inside the Chief Instructors' circles to place upstart nobles into companies filled with nothing but sponsored candidates- throwing them to the metaphorical wolves and watching the blood and innards fly into the air. The worst punishment, after all, was one inflicted by one's own peers. However, the opposite also proved true. With the inclusion of more nobles into the academy's walls, the most promising sponsored candidates were slyly transferred into the most toxic aristocratic companies, letting the nobles themselves have a chance at turning the knife.

Unlike Chief Instructors like Suzanne di Castellamonte- _she_ had a rather notorious record of breaking over five hundred scions of noble houses into nothing but sobbing masses on the floor- Chief Instructors like Alexander de Croix pursued the sacred duty of instructorship only to knock what he saw as a plague of rustics back into their holes- he liked to make them beg for their lives before he let his candidates have their way with their targets. Many a sponsored candidate during his tenure had been broken enough to commit suicide in the isolated woods at the edge of the grounds.

In any other place, his practices would have seen him hanged or put into prison, but this was Noxus, and to commit suicide was to admit weakness and defeat. The more candidates he sent over the edge of reason, the more fuel he had in his argument against the method of sponsoring candidates. At the time of Darius' reassignment into Adamant Company, Alexander had already sent one sponsored candidate into a coma. There had been no evidence of his involvement, of course, but suspicions ran deep even in the Cathedral itself.

All that was unknown to Darius- if he had chosen to listen to the whispers that his fellow candidates had been exchanging, he would have known better, but he had not. His aversion towards politics and intrigue would wane in time, but he was still too young, and the importance of listening had not yet been carved into his skin.

As soon as Darius had entered the longhouse, everyone in Adamant Company literally stopped what they were doing-books were left open, scrolls dumped on the floor, chainmail left soaking in oil. It felt disturbingly pleasant for the fourteen year old to see noblemen's children regarding him with a sort of fear in their eyes- no doubt the result of his being sponsored by the House of Swain. He would have basked in the attention if he had been Draven, but instead Darius stood next to his bunk and glared back at them all until he was promptly called into the Chief Instructor's office by Assistant Instructor Mohren.

"Where are we going, instructor?" He had asked. As far as he knew, the instructors did not work within the longhouses.

"The Cathedral." Assistant Instructor Mohren had replied.

He had never been inside the Cathedral before. He had always stared at it from afar, had always wondered what was inside. Now he was being led in like a bleating sheep to the slaughter, the blonde-haired Assistant Instructor Mohren staring at him with something like well-veiled sympathy in his eyes as he nudged Darius into a massive hall on their way to de Croix's lair.

Being inside the Cathedral's Grand Hall, even for just a moment, was as if he had decided to walk into a great beast's torso. The room could have held over a thousand people in comfort. The floor was made of polished marble slabs, a single streak of red carpet cutting the space into two parts. Torches- magical ones from the green color they emitted- lined the high walls. There were rows upon rows of tables and chairs with black paneling and green cushions- the training staff's mess?

The ceiling, already echoing a whale's ribcage, held a single massive black chandelier, and he stared at it in awe as he passed by, appreciating the elaborate carvings on the ebony wood- skeletons dancing in a field of dead men, a hooded Death almost lovingly holding a man's severed head in the air, chains and screaming faces, and demons of all forms taunting vulnerable men.

"It's amazing." Assistant Instructor Mohren said to him as he pushed Darius on the back of the head. "But you have to move now."

They went up a staircase so grandiose that imagining how much it took to make boggled his mind. The skeleton motif continued here as well, and the craftsmanship was such that it seemed the two elaborately carved banisters had been made from a single piece of wood. As a man who carved wood to survive, he couldn't help but be impressed.

The second floor was similarly decorated and designed- paintings of famous battles on every wall, a General's stern marble countenance seemingly around every corner, complete with a brass plaque underneath explaining what sort of battle the man or woman had done to deserve their rank. Mohren led him through several passages before he opened a door that looked to have a whole wing on its own.

'Office' was an underwhelming word for Chief de Croix's rooms- as benefiting a man of his station, he had been given four rooms all to his own, all four spaces decorated appropriately- large windows offering a view of the grounds below, colorful frescos of bygone battles on the walls, beautifully patterned marble flagstones, purple drapes and elaborately woven carpets, bookshelves that lined an entire wall, a massive desk carved with dragons and skeletons, marble busts of past rulers and a single gleaming broadsword hanging over a fireplace, the ebony mantelpiece laden with souvenirs from past deployments. Everything was so clean and neatly arranged that the place somehow managed to feel _clinical_, even with the supposedly personal things over the hearth.

Mohren took up his post by the door as Alexander de Croix emerged from his library, like a spider wanting to find out what it had ensnared in its web. Upon seeing Darius, a mad light flickered in his green eyes before it was stifled by coldness that seemed to descend on him.

Unlike his father, and by extension the rest of his family, the weatherworn Alexander de Croix was black-haired and green-eyed. He was undoubtedly handsome, with a strong jaw and his family's high cheekbones. If his father had been extremely well-dressed when he had met with Darius' family that fateful day, Alexander was absolutely impeccable- his hair was cut short and to standard, his blood-red cravat was well-tied, his black instructor's coat was spotless and well-pressed and his shoes were shinier than the weapons inside the Pit.

Even if he was absolutely flawless with regards to appearance and personal hygiene, he still somehow managed to give off a certain air of _wrongness_. He did not stare into space, nor did he talk to himself in the way of mental patients inside sanitariums, no. He talked and acted as if he was not entirely present in his own mind. If any one of his victims had ever survived his torture sessions, they would describe his illness as being more _visceral_ than absurd.

"Assistant Instructor," The aristocrat said in calm, cultured tones. "You may go."

Without hesitation, although he probably did have reservations about leaving a candidate in the man's care, Mohren clapped his closed fist over his beating heart, bowed his head and then left the two of them alone.

"Sit." Alexander gestured to a chair in front of the great desk, one hand behind his back.

Darius didn't move from where Mohren had left him next to the door. Was he afraid? Certainly. Was he refusing an instructor's request _because_ he was afraid? Of course not. He did not want to go through false pleasantries. Alexander de Croix was an enemy, and he was not willing to play the man's game.

Alexander de Croix shifted his hand from his back, and Darius briefly saw the elaborate gauntlet with crawling, strange runes before he felt an immense pressure settle over his throat and he was lifted a good five inches off the ground. Choking, clawing at an assailant he could not see, the fourteen year old struggled and thrashed.

"Sit," Alexander de Croix stated as he twitched his fingers like a master puppeteer. Darius was sent careening into the chair with a loud slam and a rain of splinters. "_Please_."

Like a five year old uncertain of how people were supposed to sit, Darius was flapped about against his will as the same invisible force that choked him pulled at his limbs and pushed at his chest. Breathing heavily, his nose bleeding and sending droplets flying everywhere, he tried his hardest to fight but it was like going against an avalanche with a shovel. Surrender was inevitable.

Alexander lowered his hand, pulling at an invisible line that only he seemed to be able to see. It seemed that even gravity itself was fighting him- Darius found he could not lift his limbs. Still, he was glaring furiously at the man.

"Are you glad to see me?" Alexander asked him with a boyish look on his face. Invisible claws pushed Darius' head up and down, even as the youth growled angrily at him. "'Oh yes, I am, thank you sir'." The de Croix answered for him in a mocking, singsong voice more appropriate for a little boy.

"Motherfucker." The youth spat at him.

"Oh, it is capable of speech," The de Croix gave a theatrical gasp as his eyes twinkled merrily. "How amusing indeed! It is also amazing how you manage to even speak the same language. Hello, little boy, you've grown, I see."

"Let me go, you bitch." Regardless if he was insulting an instructor, Darius practically was snarling at him.

"Oh, let's not get to that part yet, I want to talk for a while longer." The green-eyed man tilted his head and flashed him a savage smile. "This," And he wiggled his gauntleted fingers. "Is so we can have a nice chat. I do not wish to be punched while I am trying to be a polite gentleman, you see."

"Coward." Darius howled. "You're a fucking coward! Let me go!"

"Strength above all, isn't that what your dear Chief says?" Alexander tapped at his lip; each and every movement seemed to make Darius' invisible bindings tighter. With mounting horror he could see the outline of the magic on his skin. "Why, I am simply playing to my strengths. Will you play by my rules or will you give me the most satisfying pleasure to snap your neck right now?"

Unable to even object, Darius settled on glaring at him instead. Slowly, the invisible force lessened its hold, and although he still could not move, at least it was not painful.

"And it learns!" The nobleman exclaimed as he clapped his hands together. "Oh, how wonderful. It has a _brain_."

"What do you want, de Croix?" Darius gritted out.

"The most marvelous thing imaginable- the _perfect_ vengeance." Alexander watched Darius with a deceptively casual tone of voice. "I planned it as meticulously as possible, you see- I will _take_ everything you **are**, and I will _destroy_ what you will **become**. I will **bleed** you, and then when you are empty and grey, I will give you a knife, or perhaps a length of rope and you will tell yourself that it is best if you simply… _died_."

"I'm not going to kill myself." Darius struggled to keep his voice even- it came out sounding hoarse and weak thanks to the beating he had gotten.

"Oh, we don't know that yet." Alexander gave a chuckle and a dismissive wave. "There's still plenty of time before you're transferred out of my care. Plenty of time indeed."

"Why can't you just let it go?" The candidate asked him. Having been hounded for a year, he could not understand why Maynard would never stop. "Your father took the lives of my parents, deprived me of my home and took away my livelihoods." Darius couldn't help but snarl at him. "_That_ is not enough?"

"A true vengeance," Maynard's second son raised a finger as if he was teaching Darius how to spell, his voice dripping with false kindness. "Is definitive, and complete. To truly avenge my brother's memory, the payment for his life must be like that of my House against the House of Montpelier- absolute annihilation. Once you are dead and your weakling brother too- only then will my father say that it is _enough_."

Any small hope he had of being able to escape vanished. He had to destroy them, before they destroyed him and Draven. "Your entire family is mad-" Darius began, but he was quickly interrupted.

"If I killed your younger brother, you would be as well." The de Croix tilted his head, staring at him with sympathy that seemed more wooden and cold than the desk or the marbled floor.

Darius glowered at him sullenly. It had only occurred to him then. Yes, he would have felt the same way if Draven had died. He would have sought the same methods. Being the target of the abuse and yet understanding his enemy's reasons only made his determination to foil their plans stronger- he would not break. He would not give them the _satisfaction_.

"Did you really think you could escape? From retribution? From my _family_? Oh, what I would give to be as naïve, as much of a dotard as you. You, who perceive the world as so simple a thing," And the de Croix gestured here and there. "That _this_ is black, _that_ is white. I am _evil_, and you are _good_. I would pity you, if I could."

"Don't insult _me_ with your so-called pity." Darius retorted acidly.

"And do not insult me with your barbarity and petty threats," The aristocrat returned with a careless shrug of his shoulders. "At this point, I hazard to guess that we have insulted each other enough. Perhaps we should move on- I would prefer your capitulation."

"No." Darius informed him flatly.

"Well, as they say-" And Alexander reached out and gently closed his fist. "I did try."

The pressure came down upon him again, and Darius resisted the urge to scream as the malevolent force closed around him. Just when he reached the precipice of consciousness, when he was quite certain that he would pass out from the pain- the hold stopped and he flopped to the ground like a dying fish.

"This," The aristocrat said with a gaming tone in his voice. "Is too simple, isn't it?"

Barely conscious on the floor, Darius felt the man's boot push him about until he was lying down on the ground, chest heaving up and down in weary breaths. His eyes were narrowed to slits in his exhaustion and pain.

"It is a wonder what a little magic can do." The aristocrat said to him as he bent down and gave Darius a sharp cuff on the face. "In a land full of savages such as yourself- all of you struggle like a little worm in my hands and it feels so… _empowering_."

Violently pulled back into consciousness, the teenager stared blearily up at his oppressor as the man smiled down at him in a parental fashion, cupping his chin in one hand and manipulating his jaw like a child would to a doll.

"I think I should give you a little more time. Would you like more time?" Alexander mused out loud, even if the teenager on the floor couldn't manage anything except a few disjointed words and heavy breathing. "I think you would like more time. That would suit my needs- and yours, of course. It is always a good thing to have a fighting quarry."

"Wha-" The candidate rasped out. "What are you-"

"Ssssh," Alexander said softly as he patted Darius' abused face. "You're tired, of course. You've had a whole day out in the Pit. I will send for Mohren to take you back to your bunk, hm? It is not at all sporting if I terminated you right now- I wish to talk with you a little more when you are not at all exhausted. It might be more interesting."

And then he stood- Darius could dimly hear him walking away to get Mohren.

"Alex-Alexander," Darius managed to say with a beleaguered wave.

Like any good mother, the man was at his side at the mention of his name. "Yes, little savage? What is it?"

"Hope you," Darius said. He had been thrown down a set of stairs, had his nose broken by a woman and had been, after suffering under the heat of the sun for hours on end, thrown about like a ragdoll. Quite frankly, he was beyond caring about what happened to himself as he ran the words through his mind and out his mouth. "Die in a fire."

"Oh, that _would_ be a nice accident." Was the man's twisted response. "That's a very good idea, thank you, little savage."

He must have passed out then, because the next thing Darius remembered was waking up in his bunk, hearing the bustling of bodies around him. He opened his eyes and found that he could not move. Staring down, he saw that he was pinned to his bed by his own blanket- held down by two candidates. A third was in the process of jamming a gag in his mouth. Of course, he struggled, but he was still so tired, and yet again, he did not have access to his limbs.

Palpable fear coursed through his body, making every movement difficult and every limb cold. He could not completely hide the emotion from breaking out of his eyes as he squirmed and twisted under the blankets, kicking and flailing to no effect- the two candidates were too strong, and he was too weak. His screams were muffled by the cloth gag and trying to spit the thing out only made him sick to his stomach as the dry cloth snaked its way down his throat and filled his mouth with an unbearably bitter taste.

"Darlings," Alexander de Croix's cheerful voice filled his ears. "We have another toy. Let's give it a warm welcome- but I would prefer that you not break it."

And as his struggling reached a feverish pitch, the blows began, raining down from all directions and from the darkness of the longhouse- punches and kicks, soap bars wrapped in shirts, hastily made rope knots and balled-up chainmail shirts. There was nothing he could do but scream and struggle helplessly against an endless foe, hoping against hope that all of it would just **stop**.

The helpless feeling overwhelmed him, and he would have cried if he could, because it that was the only thing that he could do without pain, but he had never been able to cry since his parents had volunteered themselves for the chopping block, and so his eyes simply rotated madly in their sockets, pleading and begging for the punishment to stop.

He had already suffered much that day, but the candidates around him did not care if he was close to passing out again. They continued to pummel him with cold faces and merciless hands, and still thumped away at him when he gave in to the pain and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

"That's enough, darlings." Alexander de Croix said as soon as he saw that Darius was no longer struggling. The candidates slinked back to their bunks like rats, leaving the man standing next to the unconscious candidate.

"He is rather tough, isn't he?" The Chief Instructor said to no one in particular.

"Sir?" Assistant Instructor Mohren asked at the entrance of the longhouse. The unspoken question hung in the air: _who are you talking to?_

"Oh yes, of course." Alexander de Croix said with an over exaggerated shrug of his shoulders. "It's your turn to watch over the dears?"

"Yes sir." Mohren said slowly as he approached his commanding officer. "How was your shift, sir?"

"Mind-numbing. You're in for a rather dull night." The de Croix sniffed sadly as he walked out of the longhouse. "They've all been precious angels sleeping in their bunks."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Quite frankly, this is the most disturbing chapter I've written so far, but it had to be done. I made myself sick just thinking about what exactly was in Dar's mouth then.

This sort of hazing was popularized with the movie 'Full Metal Jacket', and I tried my best to put myself in those sort of shoes and to depict the amount of fear, helplessness and cold panic that one would feel in that circumstance.

No, I've never been bullied like that, but I have been trapped in a cardboard box before and it's... not a good feeling.


	11. Daylight Could Be So Violent

**[DAYLIGHT COULD BE SO VIOLENT]**

_So two nights passed: the night's dismay_

_Saddened and stunned the coming day._

_Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me_

_Distemper's worst calamity._

_The third night, when my own loud scream_

_Had waked me from the fiendish dream,_

_O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,_

_I wept as I had been a child;_

**The Pains of Sleep (Samuel Taylor Coleridge)**

* * *

**FIVE WEEKS LATER…**

The putrid smells of pigment bug, sweat and decaying matter filled his senses as he reached deep into the tree, ignoring the jagged edges of the dead bark as it raked his skin. He had been bothered by the nauseating odor before- but having lived and worked underground for most of his life had deadened his nose against the scent of squalor. He squinted through the stinging sweat as it ran past his eye, trying to feel his way through crevices too small for his large fingers. The bugs were not poisonous, but their bite was rather painful, and so it was with immense difficulty that he tried to find the elusive thing without running straight into its jaws- massive when held in comparison to the rest of its frame.

Pigment bugs never chirped or squeaked- their calls of alarm were high pitched, grating noises vaguely reminiscent of human screams. Their plump bodies, when not covered by smooth chitin, felt like velvet thanks to billions of tiny hairs. When his fingers came into contact with its back then, the thing let loose a haunting howl of fear as it twisted on itself- he could feel its pointy legs scraping against his flesh- and then it closed its massive jaws on his fingertip.

Pain erupted from the tip of his index finger and he bit on his lip, trying to ignore the stabbing pain, as he instinctively tried to pull his arm away. But his sleeve caught on something, and then suddenly he was trapped with his arm all the way inside a massive tree's hollow, with a howling, vicious thing at the opposite end chewing on his hand. Panic gripped him like a vice, penning his heart into a chest that suddenly seemed too small. Breathing, such a basic thing, became difficult. Even if his mind told him that pigment bugs only ate tree sap, he could feel the thing eating away at his skin and muscle eagerly, as if _he_ was what it needed all along.

Screaming hoarsely, he beat at the tree trunk with his fist, erratically pulling at his arm. He could feel it tearing into his flesh still, and with a herculean effort that tore a three inch long gash in his arm, he finally wrenched his limb free. He could see it hanging off the remnants of his index finger, gnawing malevolently at his knuckle, its corpulent mass coming down in folds over his yellowed bones, large multifaceted eyes staring at him wickedly as its jaws shifted and pulled strand after strand of muscle from his hand.

Utterly horrified, he reached over and pulled it off, screaming his throat raw all the while as pain flooded his system and made his limbs shake. It did not let go easily, bringing with it a long strip of skin as it went. Vindictively, he closed his fist, thinking that it would burst in a cloud of satisfying red. But as his fingers wrapped about it, it did not explode like an overblown balloon- instead, it turned into a shrieking cloud of legs and eyes and mouths- a veritable ghastly swarm that flew into his face, forcing a billion needles into his eyes and nose, down his mouth and into his ears.

And then suddenly, Darius was not at an insect farm. He was not being eaten alive. He was kicking his blanket off, the sheets underneath him stained through with sweat. His head felt like someone had just stepped on it. His chest were heaving up and down as his lungs tried to suck in air, his heart tried to smash its way through his ribs and nausea began to take a hold of his stomach, pushing his dinner up to the tip of his throat.

Hoarse breath after hoarse breath escaped his lips, and his eyes anxiously searched through the dimness of the longhouse for demonic, man-eating insects. As his confused mind tried to negotiate the difference between dream and reality, he found himself pinned against the headrest of his bunk bed, as if clinging any more to it would make him melt into the frame.

_I'm not there_, he told himself as he slowly forced himself away from the headboard. _I'm not there._

All was quiet in the longhouse. He had been screaming in his sleep but it seemed that no one had cared to get up or to tell him to shut up- everyone was too tired to do so. The candidates had spent half the day hauling one hundred pound weights on their back across five miles of inhospitable terrain with instructors dogging their heels and pelting stragglers with volcanic rocks. Before that, they had been running through drills in the Wolf's Pit, and Darius had just earned his seventh scar trying to avoid another candidate's razor-sharp flail.

Despite his fears, it seemed that training under Alexander de Croix had been no different from when he had been under Chief di Castellamonte- essentially; the two followed the same curriculum. It was when the lights were turned off in the longhouse that demons began to crawl out from under the flagstones.

His mouth filled with saliva as his meal pushed impatiently against the back of his throat. Not even bothering to pull on his sandals, he got off his bed and half-walked, half-stumbled into the bathroom. There, amongst rows and rows of communal toilets, he pulled the seat up and vomited his evening meal into the still waters.

His hand quivered as he pulled on a weight hanging on a thin chain and then blearily watched the indescribable globs of meat and rice made their inevitable journey towards the sewer. As he slumped over the bowl, he tried to make sense of what had just occurred- it was just another nightmare, the sixth one so far that involved him being trapped and then being tortured slowly- being devoured alive was a relatively new torment. Before, his dreams had involved smiling skeletons that peeled his flesh off his skin like a child would pull the wings off a fly.

Five weeks ago, Darius had tasted the second son's bitterness and hate as the man threw him about like a ragdoll. That same night, he had been pinned down and then pummeled at by his fellow candidates. What was perplexing was that when he woke up the day after, he could find no injuries. He did not even have a single bruise. He had been confused and disoriented for the rest of the day, eyeing everyone else suspiciously and falling uneasily into an exhausted sleep.

Three nights after that, Darius had been called again into de Croix's office, and yet again he had been violently tossed about and treated like a subhuman thing. Alexander did not bother with questions or other such niceties then- there was just the turn of the key on the door, and then the beating would begin in earnest. When Darius felt faint, he would be slapped back into reality or forced further into the darkness of his mind- no matter what happened, he would always wake up in his bunk, and like clockwork, his torment was constant and never-ending. Candidates would gag him and hit him, and then he would pass out again.

What ate away at Darius was that he always woke up the next day without a mark on his skin. As the subsequent beatings had taken place in the dark, he could not tell which candidate had pummeled him and so he could not directly challenge anyone. When he did snap at one point, the candidate he had accused simply stared at him as if _he_ was the crazy one.

Three more times the thrashings happened, but it was not every night, nor was it every week. He couldn't see any pattern in the abuse nor could he discern Alexander's moods prior to one. The beatings seemed utterly _random_, and after the one only last night, he couldn't help but think that his nightly torments might have all been an illusion of some sort- he would not put it past someone who clearly knew magic.

But certainly reality or illusion, it was driving him _mad_. Darius felt like a hunted thing every time the day would end, watching the other candidates suspiciously and obsessively as they did their nighttime rituals and chattered amongst themselves. When the sun set, he found that he did not want to sleep because then he might wake up again, pinned to his bed with his blanket, feeling rough cloth shoved down his throat and preventing him from screaming as the hurt began again and again. If he managed to fall asleep, he could not keep it well- the dreams would happen, and then he would be tortured there also, and he would wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and feeling sick to his very bones.

"Are you well, candidate?"

He looked up and to the side- Senior Instructor Clausen was staring at him. The man was of average height and had a rugged weather-beaten face and tired black eyes. His black hair ran wild on the top of his head, as did his stubble. Darius had never seen him handle a weapon- not even in the Pit. His deceptively lanky build was the cause of many surprised looks when he beat candidates' faces into the ground using only his fists.

Despite his roiling gut and quivering frame, Darius nodded his head mutely. In retrospect, it was quite stupid to deny that he was sick because illness was one of many things that could not be left unchecked and ignored, but at this point in time he was only fourteen and he was trying his hardest to both overlook the trauma that de Croix inflicted on him and to shoulder on with his studies.

"So you _were not_ screaming your head off earlier as you slept?" The man asked him dryly.

The fourteen year old shook his head.

"You do realize that I will not look down on you, if you choose to admit that you are ill?" The Senior Instructor tilted his head.

Darius nodded as he tried to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth, the pounding pain at the back of his head and the prickling digestive acid at the back of his nose that made his eyes water.

"And still you insist on stating that you are not?"

"Yes sir." He rasped out poorly.

The man did not seem convinced, and Darius knew it was pathetic to insist that he was not, because really, with his pallid skin and his hollowed eyes, no one would be convinced that he was _not_ feeling worse than the vomit he had just flushed down the toilet. Still, he could not bring himself to admit that he was about as strong as a fly at the moment.

"… Report to the infirmary in the morning." Clausen said with a disappointed turn of his lip and a disdainful look in his eye.

"Yes sir." Darius would have replied grudgingly, but as it was all he could manage was a wretched acknowledgement.

"You're one of di Castellamonte's get, aren't you?"

"Yes sir, this candidate was from Dominance Company." He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and spat out a stray grain of rice that had not joined the rest.

"Then you should know that admitting illness is not a weakness, candidate." The Senior Instructor frowned at him. "She taught you better."

"Yes sir." He gritted out pathetically. She had also treated him better, was what he wanted to say, but he couldn't unload his frustrations and insane speculation on this man. Was he too proud to admit that he was being ridden to the earth? Not quite. Did he suspect that Clausen was in league with de Croix? Somewhat. He didn't know who to believe at this moment, and so he felt it was best to shut up.

"Get cleaned up and go back to bed then. Frankly speaking, you look like shit." The man with an over-the-regulation haircut and an unevenly trimmed five-o-clock shadow told him.

"Yes sir." Darius repeated, and the irony of the situation bit at him as he pulled himself up off the floor and walked to the sink to wash his face.

When Darius returned to his bunk- Clausen insisted on it- he found that no matter what he did, he could not bring himself to go back to sleep again. Even with the anxious feeling flapping about in his stomach, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore it. In the way of people who did their best to be brave at all times, he tried to convince himself that he was not afraid, that he was not traumatized- but some part of him, deep down, knew that he was.

He didn't know how long he lay in his bunk with his eyes closed and his heart and quivering frame dead set on keeping him awake, but when dawn's first light began to filter through the windows, he heard the doors of the longhouse open, Clausen and Mohren's voices reverberating off the stone walls.

In the way of Chief Instructors- today was a Sunday- Alexander de Croix was nowhere to be found. No doubt he would be waiting at the lecture hall. Where Chief di Castellamonte had the riding crop, Alexander had a more painful device called a martinet- a short whip with a multitude of leather lashes at the end, and Darius had been lashed more often than he would have under Chief di Castellamonte.

"Get up, you lazy bags of meat!" Clausen shouted as he pulled the blankets off every single bed that he could see and touch. "Fix your beds, get into your uniforms and pick up your packs- we're going jogging." Darius opened his eyes and tried to get up with the rest of the candidates, but Mohren held out a hand of warning.

"You're to report to the infirmary, candidate." The Assistant Instructor told him, eyes filled with nothing but brutal awareness. _He_ knew why, he had been the one taking him there after all.

For a split second, Darius contemplated asking _Mohren_ if he was going insane, but even if the older man didn't like what was happening, it was not as if he could do anything about it- Nikett could not speak against his superior, and there was the fact that the House of Croix stood higher than the House of Mohren.

Darius realized then that he was well and truly trapped- if not in an elaborate illusion, in a ruthless and malicious reality. His only option was to endure. If he managed to survive, if he held on to whatever sanity he had left- he would eventually be transferred out, cycled back into Dominance with a Chief Instructor he actually _respected_.

"Good morning sir." Darius said stubbornly.

"I mean it, candidate." Mohren said harshly.

"Yes sir." Darius gritted out.

And so while the rest of the company was punished for being too slow to rise, forced to take a shower together in one straight line- '_nuts to butts'_, he had heard one of the veterans back in Dominance Company say vulgarly once, when Chief di Castellamonte had them do the same thing- Darius did not envy them.

He waited until the last candidate was out of the door before he decided to take his shower, and then halfheartedly buttoned up his clothing and combed his hair before he walked out the longhouse and made the required pilgrimage to the Infirmary. He had never before been so excluded since he had entered the gates of the Academy.

After seven months of breathing in the smells of his fellow candidates and getting splattered with their spit and sweat, it was an oddly refreshing experience to have been let loose in relative freedom. The moment he arrived in the infirmary, however, Conrad took one look at him and made a disappointed noise in his throat.

"What in nine hells happened to _you_?" The hospitalman asked him incredulously.

"Bad dream." Darius said simply as he sat down on the examination chair- it was a good try to lie to Clausen, but Conrad actually knew what he was doing, and so there was no point in trying to lie because the man would probably cuff him on the head for being an idiot and compound his already worsening headache.

"What, did you get chased by a dog or something?" The hospitalman pulled a strange contraption onto his head- a harness with a little runestone on the center that emitted a bright light- and looked down his throat. Darius tried to ignore the pain he felt when he exposed the abused flesh to the air and closed his mouth when the man put the head harness away.

"I was being eaten alive by a pigment bug." He admitted.

The hospitalman gave an impressed whistle. "Nasty dream, that. No wonder your throat went to hell."

"What do you think I should do?" Darius asked him somewhat desperately, trying not to think of how weak he sounded.

"You're not that over the edge yet." The man tapped on his chin as he stared at Darius up and down, taking in his general condition: the ashen skin, beads of sweat on his brow from having walked under the sun, inflamed throat and bags under his eyes. "No broken bones, no bleeding wounds- a health potion, a bit of _good_ food and sleep would set you to rights."

"That's it?"

"That's it." Conrad affirmed. "We don't even have to use a healing spell."

"In what cases is a healing spell necessary?" Even if he was tired, he couldn't help but ask.

"Oh, if you lost a tooth and broke your cheekbone like Keiran did- that warrants a healing spell. Basically anything broken that can't be fixed with ointments, serums or that sort of thing- or if you want to heal up really fast and still look handsome." The hospitalman shrugged his shoulders. "As much as possible, I don't like resorting to spells, though- too expensive and a bit too risky for my taste- we don't know the aftereffects, if any."

"_Expensive_?" He echoed.

"**Hell** yes, because it's not going to be _me_ that's going to do the mending. I'm not a mage. I can patch you up just fine if it's something like a cut or a gash- but anything beyond that and you're looking at a hefty fee and a temperamental healer." The hospitalman admitted with a rolling shrug of his shoulders. "Thankfully, you don't seem to have wrecked yourself beyond what I can fix."

Darius would have grumbled a bit more, but his throat hurt and he was starting to feel feverish. "So what are we going to do?"

"_You_ are going drink something and then you're going to sleep. _I_ have to fill out a requisition for the potion and then I have to check if Solberg is awake-" The man reached over, intent on herding him to a bed- but the moment his fingertips touched his skin, Darius reached out like coiled lightning, catching the hospitalman's hand in a vise-like grip. His other hand would have collided with Conrad's jaw, but the hospitalman ducked his head just in time.

"What the **fuck**?" Conrad practically spat at him as he yanked his hand out of Darius' grip. "What the **hell** is your problem?"

It took a few seconds for Darius to realize what had just happened. He had felt the man's hand on his shoulder, and he had instinctively lashed out against him. He tried to calm down now, to regulate breathing that had suddenly become erratic, to lower hands that were now shaking enough to make the limbs seem detached from the rest of his body.

"Sorry." Darius said woodenly as he tried to stop himself from shivering.

"You're just a bag of rabid bats, aren't you?" The hospitalman retorted nastily.

"Sorry." He repeated, and he watched the hospitalman shake his head in frustration.

"You have some serious problems, kid." Conrad said as he walked away. "_Serious_ problems."

_I suppose so_, Darius thought. "Can't fix that either?" He chuckled weakly.

"What am I? A shrink?" Conrad's voice came from around the corner. Moments later, a small red bottle sailed through the air- Darius caught it by the neck as the hospitalman continued on. "Hell no, I'm a killer that gives out bandages to rich kids for a living. I don't explore people's heads- you can pay me to do it, but I probably won't be much help at all."

He looked down at the bottle in his hands and read the label. "It says 'overdose can cause potentially fatal kidney, brain and liver damage'." He stared at the hospitalman in askance.

"It's really nice that you know how to read." Conrad resumed his seat next to him. "No, seriously, just drink it and you'll be fine."

Darius stared at him suspiciously, even if he didn't mean it at all. He had read about the organs of the human body after that day when Conrad taught him about the most vulnerable blood vessels- and so he knew that damaging the kidneys, liver and brain would result in a most horrible and slow death.

Of course in his readings he had also stumbled across diagrams of the female human body, but he had stared at the images and had felt nothing in particular- sex was still an abstract idea even if he _was_ fourteen. He didn't have time to _wonder_ about it, as silly as it might seem- when his parents were still alive, he had work and the defense of his family name in mind. When they died, he had to find work that would keep him out of public eye and had to learn how to take care of his stupid baby brother. Now there was his education, de Croix's 'vengeance' and the constant, disquieting thought that he was going to go home to a corpse or to a burnt down house because mail was not allowed in the Academy and he didn't know if Draven was still _alive_. Of course his inexperience would tell very much later in his life, but that would be years into the future.

"What, did people beat you while you were asleep?" Conrad's tone of voice was obviously sarcastic, but the moment he saw Darius flinch as if he had just cuffed him on the jaw, a knowing look settled over his eye and he gave an exasperated sigh.

"That's another thing," The hospitalman began. "I don't like about _you_ people."

"What is?" Darius tore his focus away from keeping himself still to the man across him.

"People _did_ beat the shit out of you, didn't they?" Conrad tilted his head. "No need to hide it from me, I treat everyone and I've been here long enough that it doesn't surprise me anymore."

Hesitantly, Darius gave a nod. Yet again, he contemplated telling this person what de Croix was doing, but he couldn't bring himself to _trust_ the hospitalman, no matter how asinine it might be for him to distrust the only person thus far who had shown a blatant interest in helping him.

"Look, don't worry your little masochistic head over it- I'm under oath to keep my mouth shut." The hospitalman shrugged. "And that's the way it is here. Ask anyone in your company- they've been beaten to hell like you have. It's so you can be '_strong'_-" And he waggled his fingers mockingly. "Honestly, all I see are walking psychopaths."

Darius merely stared at him- the concept of _not_ being strong was alien to him. As good as the Noxian system was in producing great warriors and scheming tacticians and spies, it did not make for excellent scholars, artists or great minds of literature. That is to say, there were _some_ people who _were_ brilliant thinkers and philosophers in Noxus- it just so happened that they were either strong enough physically or well-connected politically to avoid dying or being subjected to an endless amount of abuse that culminated in a murder-suicide.

"Ah, hells. What am I doing preaching to a wall that doesn't know any better?" The former Piltoverian frowned at him. "Just remember, when you finally travel- and I mean travel for _fun_ and not for profiteering and conquering and whatever it is that your people do- you'll see what I mean."

"_Right_." Darius said slowly and uncertainly- in the way that nonbelievers look and talk to people who claimed to have seen god.

"As for your little issue- my best advice is to just keep yourself busy and don't wrap your head around it too much." The hospitalman assured him. "Now drink your damn potion before I stuff it down your throat."

Darius ignored the sudden, murderous urge to slam the hospitalman's head violently on the floor. Instead, he took out his frustrations on pulling out the cork stopper and then, with a look of reservation on his face, drained the whole bottle. He had never been seriously ill until Adrian de Croix gave him the jagged scar, and had been unconscious or raving mad for the duration of the fever.

So he did not have the good fortune to be sick _and_ to have medicine at the same time- what he knew of medicine, its effects and taste was what he primarily heard from other people. Instead of the bitter taste that he had often been told about, he could detect nothing but a sort of smooth and warm flow, the sweet taste probably came from something he probably was too poor to have ever eaten.

"What is that?" He asked as he handed the empty bottle to the hospitalman. Already he could feel the effects of the draught- his throat felt better, like it was being massaged, but the drawback was that he could feel himself getting sleepy and he didn't want to close his eyes just yet.

"Licorice." The man said smugly. "Good, isn't it? They make brandy in that flavor."

"Yes, it's good." Darius nodded as he licked his lips, slightly disappointed that drinking more of the concoction would give him multi-organ failure. He told himself to look for that thing- brandy, Conrad called it? "All potions are like that?"

"No, you moron. I just like to experiment with flavors." The hospitalman chuckled as he put the empty bottle on a nearby desk. "At worst, you'll get chewables that taste like boiled potatoes and at the very best you'll get stuff laced with spiced rum- those are _always_ the best ones. Don't let someone with a cranberry-flavored health potion scam you."

Darius had absolutely no idea what a cranberry was, so he simply gave a dumb nod and tried not to look sheepish when the hospitalman read him like a book and practically gaped at him for not knowing.

"What about grapes? Papayas?" Conrad asked despairingly. "Cherries? Redcurrants? Blueberries?'

Darius gave him a blank look- he had never heard of those things before. A cursory glance at the market before he had left informed him that the only luxury foods he could afford on a semi-regular basis with his given stipend were apples and an assortment of nuts. Like any good elder brother, he had told Draven about _that,_ but he didn't know if his younger brother was following his instructions in the first place.

"Elderberries? Peaches? Blackberries? Persimmons? Ligonberries?"

The mystified teen shook his head. If he had been wealthier, he probably would have known all of that. As it was, he had been born into poverty and he didn't see the point in wasting his hard-earned money on things that would not ward away hunger for very long.

Conrad seemed to be thinking of food that seemed more likely for someone of Darius' social class to eat on a regular basis, and he snapped his fingers when he remembered the exact name. "_Bearberries_?" The man tried.

_That_ name was familiar- Darius gave him a nod. His father had once told him it would suffice if he was really hungry, but he shouldn't eat too much because it would make him sick. He once had, in a fit of desperation, fed bearberries to his brother, but Draven had complained about the rough flavor and vomited it back up anyway.

The hospitalman gave a heavy sigh and covered his face with both of his hands. "Of all the fruits you could have eaten, it had to be the one poisonous in large amounts. Heathens," Conrad lamented loudly, wringing his hands in frustration. "I'm surrounded by _heathens_!"

"I've eaten apples before." Darius supplied unhappily. In all actuality, it was only _one_ apple, because he had given the rest of the half-dozen to Draven, and the apples that had fallen into the ditch all those months ago had been given to Talon as a bribe.

"That's like… let me try and keep it simple- saying that you drink only one wine and that it's _fine_." Conrad huffed. "But it's not, _moron_."

"It's not?" Darius asked him bemusedly. Over the days of dealing with the man, he had learned to ignore his vulgar and insulting manner of speech. "There's more than one kind of 'wine'?"

"Why the hell am I arguing with you anyway?" Conrad snapped irritably like a fish sick and tired of a taunting lure. "Don't you have a formation to get to?"

"I was told to report to the Infirmary." Darius replied with a shrug. "I didn't receive any other order."

"_Great_, that means I have to babysit you for the rest of the day until one of your nannies pick you up." Conrad massaged his temples. "Don't you want to sleep or something?"

Darius certainly felt sleepy, but the prospect of spending a full day in bed seemed wasteful. Besides, he still felt as if he couldn't let his guard down in bed. Like any person ignoring exhaustion, he shook his head and stifled a yawn.

"There you go again- how many hours did you sleep last night?" The hospitalman inquired.

"Enough." Darius replied laconically.

"_Very_ funny. Are you sure you don't want to get some rest?"

Darius shook his head.

Knowing full well that there was no way he could possibly change the kid's mind, the hospitalman stood up and went to a nearby drawer, pulling out a blue vial this time. He pressed it into Darius' hands and shrugged when the younger man gave him a curious look. "It'll keep you awake, you stubborn piece of shit. How's your axe-work?"

"I've gotten better. But sometimes I can't remember where to hit exactly-" Darius admitted as he pulled the stopper off and emptied the vial- this time the tart flavor made him cough as it stung his throat. "Hgrk- what was _that_?"

"Grapefruit." The hospitalman said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Why do you even bother asking anyway? It's not like you'll be eating grapefruits or relaxing in a hammock under the sun."

Darius shrugged. "I'm… curious?"

"_Too_ curious." Conrad replied nastily as he picked up a nearby medical bag and slung it over his shoulder; it had been pre-packed for emergencies from the way it bulged in all directions. "Well, come on then. It's not like we're going to be productive just sitting indoors and talking about the nice things in life you'll probably _never_ have. Let's go do your favorite caveman pastime and cut the shit out of training dummies so you can bleed your peers like cattle."

"When you put it _that_ way, it doesn't sound at all complex." Darius mused as he followed the man out.

"You're a fucking moron." Was the man's caustic reply. "You're Noxian; you're not supposed to be _complex_."

"Well," And Darius struggled to find an insult because he didn't know much about other cultures as of yet, but there was no way in hell that he was going to let Conrad off the hook. "You're Piltoverian- you're supposed to be a 'twinkle-toed weakling'."

"Nice insult- did you borrow that from the crazy spinster?"

The two of them spent the rest of the day as they had always done whenever Darius had spare time- he practiced striking the dummy in strategic places, cutting away until he was quite certain he could cripple someone in his sleep, and then Conrad would drill him on the places that he had just sliced at- questioning him on how long his quarry would last, on how much blood the target would have lost by the end of it, checking to see if Darius actually did hit his marks where he thought they were.

Darius was inspecting his handiwork as Conrad rested in the shadow of a nearby shed when they saw a figure trekking across the heated landscape. Both watched as the newcomer walked around the corner of the granite grandstand- it was Assistant Instructor Strongbow.

"Good afternoon, Assistant Instructor." Darius sprang up as soon as he realized who it was, his hand going towards his chest in the Noxian salute as he stood at attention.

"Have you been here all day?" Strongbow asked breathlessly as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Yeah." Conrad barked from the ground- _he_ didn't even bother standing up.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Strongbow asked the hospitalman with a raised eyebrow.

"No one else was going to babysit him." Conrad shrugged. "Why, did someone bump their toe? Did you throw someone out a window again?"

"Oh _shut_ up." Apparently, this was not normal behavior- Strongbow's response made Conrad sit up and stare at him bemusedly. "I need to talk to the candidate."

"I'm not here." The hospitalman grumbled loudly as he lay back down on the ground and put his arm over his face.

Strongbow took a hold of Darius' arm, and it took everything he had to stop himself from punching the man in the face. The Assistant Instructor led him off to the other side of the shed and looked around before he finally spoke.

"The House of Swain was dissolved this morning. Thorvald Swain was executed in Ivory Ward for alleged sedition." Strongbow informed him gravely, and then the man stared at him as if he expected him to react. Darius was confused, and it must have showed, because then the Assistant Instructor rolled his eyes and spoke with an extremely patient look on his face.

"Thorvald Swain was the one who sponsored your entry into this Academy," The Instructor stated. "With the House of Swain dissolved- stripped of their name and by extension, their _nobility_- and Thorvald dead, your sponsorship is now held in question."

Darius found himself worrying for Draven. It would be so easy to ignore the question, to carry on without thinking about his brother's reliance on him for funding- but the fact remained that the stipend was one of the reasons why he came to this place, and if the stipend was gone, he knew he would worry for Draven until he saw the boy personally again.

It is quite easy to mistake Darius' worry as an act of love, but the fact of the matter was that, at this point in time, Darius did not _love_ his brother. He was _fond_ of the boy, in the same way that a man is fond of a beloved dog that keeps tearing his belongings into pieces. Eventually this dislike would turn into genuine respect and brotherly admiration, but as of now, Darius thought of Draven more as a burden or a leech rather than an actual brother.

It is natural to beg the question, then: why was Draven still under his care? Why did Darius feel obligated towards someone that gave him more grief than happiness?

It is important to note that there was one quality that marked Darius out from other Noxians: he was _responsible_. In a society where emphasis on personal advancement was a pillar of culture, to be responsible was to either admit weakness or to saddle oneself with an unnecessary burden. Responsibility was not precisely frowned on, because it was a good quality in soldiers, but it was a bad quality to have in the very best spies and the most self-serving politicians.

Given the same situation, any other Noxian would have left Draven to die in a heartbeat- the boy was nothing more than a pathetic leech and in Noxus, those sorts of people were best left by the wayside to be picked at by crows- but Darius' parents, his mother in particular, had quite literally loved Draven to death.

The last thing they had asked of him before they were executed for _his_ mistake was to take care of his brother, and he had promised them that he would. And so, because he was _responsible_, he never reneged on his promises. Even if he didn't like the kid, he would always look out for him. If the kid died, he would feel disappointed with himself instead of feeling depressed.

"Does that mean that… this candidate would not be receiving stipends in the future, sir?" Darius asked him.

"I'm not quite certain." Strongbow admitted. "Don't you have contact with your sponsor?"

"No sir." Darius said rather unhappily. Grimly, he thought of how many days would pass until Strongbow would come to him again and tell him that his brother was dead. "This candidate does not."

"Ah, damn." Strongbow made a disappointed noise. "The former House of Swain is not… _poor_, but whoever replaces Thorvald might think you to be a waste of funds and renege on their commitment. Your stipend depends on your sponsor, I am sorry to say."

Darius stared at him despondently. He honestly had no idea how Draven was going to take care of himself without the money he sent, even if he did lecture his younger brother for two months before he left. If Draven died, that was a failure on his part, because he didn't teach the kid well _enough_.

A question suddenly came into mind. If the House of Swain was gone and if the one who sponsored him had died, then- "… Will this candidate be ejected from the program due to financial difficulties, sir? Or a lack of sponsorship…?" Darius ventured uncertainly. Of course, he had to think about himself also.

"No, _you_ are paid for until the end. That was… one of the reasons why your sponsorship was _odd_, you see." Strongbow said hesitantly. "But what worries… me is, now that the House of Swain has been erased, the others in Adamant Company would capitalize upon it- you do not have your sponsor's protection now."

_It's not as if they're __**afraid**__ of me,_ Darius thought spitefully. _They beat me every other night._

As if he had read his candidate's mind, Strongbow looked at him, swallowed nervously and then asked a question that seemed to have always been in his mind since he had taken him to Adamant Company's longhouse. "Have you been beaten…?"

Darius found himself staring at the instructor with wariness. Of course, his pride dictated that he reject any admission of weakness, because he didn't want a person he respected to think he was being beaten. His pragmatism told him that he needed to say _something_, because that was **not** how instructors treated candidates- instructors lashed out only in punishment, not in personal revenge.

Eventually pragmatism won over pride in the end and he relented by acknowledging his weakness- it would win several more times in his life, with increasingly bitter results.

"…Yes sir." He said softly.

"How badly?" Strongbow asked him with a thoughtful frown on his face. He did not look to be disappointed with him- that made Darius feel _slightly_ better about telling him.

"T-this candidate is not quite certain, sir." He admitted slowly.

"Why not?" The man's tone was clipped and terse.

How does one explain to a person in authority that one was being beaten to an inch of one's life, and then the next day there would be no evidence of the beating? He already _felt_ like a lunatic- he didn't want Strongbow, a person he _trusted_, to think that he was insane.

"Out with it, candidate." Strongbow growled as two minutes passed by in silence.

Darius found himself fidgeting nervously.

"How badly?" Strongbow repeated.

"It is… _difficult_ to say, sir." He said, and he began to speak faster after Strongbow looked to interrupt him. He tried to keep himself talking, even if he saw the man's expression turn from thoughtful to incredulous. "This candidate is… lifted into the air and tossed about by the Chief Instructor until he is unconscious, and then… and then later on, this candidate is… held down with a blanket and then hit repeatedly by other candidates until he passes out, sir… but there are no marks the day after."

"The Chief Instructor?" Strongbow repeated, staring at him in disbelief.

"Y-yes, sir." Darius tried, willing himself to stay calm, to not lash out at this man for being puzzled.

"And there are no marks?" Strongbow asked.

"None at all, sir." Darius supplied shamefully. "And… this candidate does not feel sore or exhausted the day after."

Strongbow furrowed his brow in thought. Darius watched him pace. For the candidate, every single step, every single turn and every single grumbled word were absolutely **unbearable**. Why was this man even _thinking_? He had told him everything he needed to know, had tried his best to be accurate but succinct. Why wasn't he doing _something_?

"Sir?" He ventured hesitantly, when he felt he could not wait any longer.

"That… that is a heavy allegation, candidate." Strongbow admitted. "You are… accusing a Chief Instructor of interference."

Anger and bitter frustration bubbled to the surface, and he found himself wanting to snap the man's neck. He tried to keep calm, but it was still present in his words.

"You _know_ that I have a feud with Alexander de Croix." Darius growled impatiently. At any other point in time, he would have remained respectful, but the man did not believe in him, did not even take him seriously. Thankfully, Strongbow seemed willing to forgive him his rudeness.

"I _know_." The man replied, absolutely unfazed by his harsh tone. "But there are… certain steps for this- you cannot simply run about and accuse a Chief Instructor."

"Sir." Darius clawed at the dim hope he had of being able to make his oppressor suffer like he did every other night- holding onto the thought of righteous revenge like a buoy in a storm-swept ocean in one of the rare times in his life that he would lose sight of everything but a _single_ thought. "Tell me how to press a charge."

"Well, you have to bring the matter to Commander de Montfort's attention," Strongbow sounded as if he was reading from a book. "A tribunal will be formed, and then you must issue a summons. If de Croix does not appear before the tribunal, then he is automatically held as guilty and will be punished accordingly. If de Croix answers, but provides proof of his innocence that Commander de Montfort judges as sufficient, then _you_ will be held accountable for wasting the tribunal's time and _you_ will be summarily punished."

"Then I will sir." Darius said with righteous fury. "I will bring the matter before Commander de Montfort."

"_You_? Press charges against Chief Instructor de Croix?" The man seemed to find the concept laughable.

"Yes sir." Darius felt insulted at his amusement. "Yes, I will."

"You are a commoner, candidate. What would you know of _this_ world?" Strongbow jabbed at his origins with barely withheld disdain.

"Not enough," Darius admitted in a rare moment of furor. "But I will not stand for this any longer."

"You don't _have_ anything." Strongbow pointed out coldly. "You said it yourself: there are no marks."

The man's last sentence seemed to trigger something in him. As the possibility of revenge ran from his fingers like sand, he felt the familiar feelings of helplessness and rage bubble to the surface. His entire frame began to shake.

"I'm not going to just… lie down and let him do as he wants!" Darius shouted at him with long-withheld frustration, the resentment absolutely palpable in his voice and in his desperate eyes. "I can't take… I can't take another night. I'm going **mad** just… thinking about what he plans to do, about the next time everyone is going to take a hit at me!"

"But you have to." Strongbow stated lazily, as if he was disciplining a puppy butting its head against a wall. "Because there is no evidence, there is no reliable witness, and you just lost your sponsorship. You're… stressed, I understand, but there is absolutely no way that your word will stand against de Croix's in a tribunal. You will lose, and then you will be flogged sixty times before the entire training flag. There is **no point** in carrying through with your accusation."

The candidate made a frustrated noise as he shook his head. "Then what's the point of me staying in Adamant Company?" He croaked weakly. "Why can't you transfer me out?"

"One misdemeanor results in one cycle of punishment." Strongbow informed him, but his voice and bearing was not without sympathy. "That is the law, candidate, and… Chief Instructor di Castellamonte will not make any exceptions. You must serve your time in another unit, as your fellow candidates have before you."

Darius held his head in his hands, quaking all the while. He felt absolutely lost, vulnerable and very disappointed in a system that he had believed in. He wanted, more than anything, to just **throttle** the life out of the man in front of him, but he couldn't bring himself to. Perhaps, on some level, he understood the man's words and knew that lashing out on a person that had done nothing but help was a bad idea.

"I… I will admit that… I am _worried_ for you now that I know what is happening," Strongbow seemed to pick up on his conflicted emotions. He had sympathy aplenty in his voice, and he even seemed to _understand_. "But I cannot interfere in the affairs of other companies, and I certainly cannot go against Chief Instructor de Croix. You must endure."

"But I can't!" Darius spoke despairingly, his hands curling into fists. "I can't. I can't _think_, I can't _sleep_, I can't- I just want it to stop. You gave me a way, but you won't let me? What kind of fucking, sadistic bitch are you to hold that in my face and just take it away?"

"The very **best** kind," Strongbow stated- yet again he ignored the rough words and tolerated his behavior. "Do you trust me, candidate?"

Darius stared at him from hollowed eyes. Suddenly, he felt too tired to even care, too tired to even try and speak any longer. His head hurt, he wanted to cry but he couldn't, and he just wanted to scream a bit more but his throat was starting to hurt him again.

"Do you trust me?" Strongbow repeated.

_Do I?_ He asked himself. He tried to shoulder through his headache, tried to think. It was a testament of Strongbow's personal strength that the man was taking his disrespect and emotional frustration in the face without batting an eyelash and judging him for it.

"Yes." He rasped miserably.

"Then you will endure." Strongbow said. "You _have_ to- you've survived this long, haven't you?"

"Sir," Darius responded unhappily. "I have."

"I won't tell you that… you'll be fine. Obviously, you won't." Strongbow gave a heavy sigh. "But you must endure, candidate. You have four more weeks left. Hold on and then you'll be gone from here."

Four weeks, and then it would be over. He clung to that hope instead, that if he managed to tolerate everything he had gone through for four more weeks, then he would be returned to his company, to an Assistant Instructor that seemed to care, to a Chief Instructor that dealt with him fairly.

"Yes sir." He tried to put more life into his voice.

"I will inform Chief Instructor di Castellamonte, and Commander de Montfort of your… difficulties."

He resisted the urge to snap and ignored the passing speck of hope. Whatever plan Strongbow seemed to have, he tried to place his trust in it. "Yes sir."

Strongbow stared at him before he gave a nod. "Alright then, I will… return to my company and-" He stopped midsentence, staring at something over Darius' shoulder.

Darius looked behind him- Assistant Instructor Mohren was shifting uneasily from foot to foot, a guilty look in his eye.

It took every single strand of willpower within him to not suddenly scream at Strongbow that Mohren was guilty as well. Darius held his tongue, watching the two instructors sizing each other up like competitive duelists stared at their opponents.

Dominance Company's Assistant Instructor stared at his counterpart, and the wheels seemed to turn in his own head.

"Sir Strongbow." Mohren's greeting sounded rather wooden.

"Mohren." Strongbow greeted coolly.

"Chief Instructor de Croix requires the… candidate's presence at once." Mohren's voice was half-confident and half-hesitant.

"Ah," Strongbow replied innocently, as if he had never heard Darius break down in front of him. "For what?"

"… I have… not been informed of his motives." Mohren's eyes shifted downward as he avoided the other man's gaze and spoke in halting tones.

"Of course." Strongbow remarked flatly- he looked to be suppressing a grin.

"… Of course." Mohren returned with an awkward cough. "That being said…"

"Have you consulted Senior Hospitalman Conrad?" Strongbow asked him nonchalantly. "Candidate Darius was released into his direct supervision."

"I have-" Mohren would have said more, but the aforementioned man cut him off.

"Nope! Not all all!" Conrad said loudly from his hiding place around the corner of the shed. "I haven't seen your face in a while, Nikett!"

"Ah well," Strongbow gave a careless shrug as he turned his head and watched the hospitalman inch off. "He did what is expected of him, of course, to take care of a candidate. You know how he is, aside from being a rather rude and obsessive eavesdropper, of course."

"Of course." Mohren looked to be holding back a difficult emotion. "I will… request for him to clear the candidate then."

"Of course." Strongbow repeated with a veiled smile.

Darius watched then as Mohren shook his head, grumbling something under his breath as he shouldered past the two of them. He bumped into Strongbow and sent the man back a step on his way out. It wasn't until Nikett was across the grandstand- Conrad had chosen _this_ particular moment to run as far from the Pit as he could- that Strongbow finally spoke.

"Sir?" Darius queried him- he couldn't quite hear what the man said.

"_Unprofessional_." Strongbow said louder for his benefit, staring at other nobleman's silhouette with contempt. "That man is absolutely unprofessional, I regret recommending him for the post. I should have known he wouldn't be able to hold against de Croix."

"Sir?"

"That," Strongbow gave him a lopsided smirk. "Is how you fight in _this_ world, candidate."

"It's… something." Darius said, for the lack of a better word. He didn't quite understand what went on- he _did_ know that Mohren was lying about his medical clearance, but the rest of the conversation had been lost on him.

"You'll learn," Strongbow said somewhat helpfully as he gestured for Darius to follow him. "We all do."

Realization came very slowly as he accompanied Strongbow back to the infirmary but the moment he figured out the entire conversation, he practically gaped at Strongbow for having been so devious.

Mohren had greeted Strongbow with a 'sir'- and Strongbow did not use the same appellation as he addressed him. Later after their conversation, Strongbow mentioned that he had been the one to recommend Mohren into the post. That meant that Strongbow had been in the Academy for longer. He was the senior. So he could not just be coerced into letting Darius go- it was an offense for a junior to go against his senior.

When Mohren had stated his purpose, he was slow and awkward in doing so. In addition, stating that he did not know precisely what de Croix wanted Darius for and not looking at the other instructor in the eye was a clear indication of his guilt and consensus with de Croix. When Mohren tried to get him released back into Adamant Company's responsibility, Strongbow casually brought up the fact that a candidate needed to be cleared by the hospitalman-in-charge, and Conrad had picked up on the subtle hint by denying Mohren's lie and running away from the Pit- a cowardly action, but effective.

"Keep quiet." Strongbow said to him with a smile as Darius opened his mouth to ask him how one learned to be so manipulative. "I am well-aware of having been born into my House, but as others will tell you, it is a fairly recent one, and the… pain is still rather familiar."

"Sir." Darius said instead. "Will you teach me?"

"You simply have to be quicker with your mind, candidate. You have potential."

The two of them halted in the middle of the hallway. Mohren was walking towards them, a paper in one hand and a cross expression on his face. Distantly, they could hear Conrad cackling like a madman in the infirmary.

"Strongbow, sir." Mohren gritted out. "I have the clearance for the candidate."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Strongbow replied lazily.

"Sir-" Mohren looked a bit lost before he realized that the candidate in question was staring at him expectantly. "Ah, yes sir."

"Do enjoy yourself," Strongbow replied, and Mohren ducked his head as he pulled on Darius' arm.

"Come on." Mohren growled under his breath.

"Yes sir." Darius grumbled back, stopping himself from beating the life out of the man who was again leading him to his abuser.

Once more, Darius found himself alone in the familiar set of rooms, watching Alexander de Croix's gauntleted fingers flex expectantly, eyeing him hungrily like a spider who had been starving for a long while. He braced himself for the inevitable beating, but it seemed that de Croix was in a talking mood that night.

"Tell me, little savage, who deserves your respect the most?" de Croix asked him lazily.

Darius stared at him, debating if he should even answer the madman in front of him, and what the man would do to him if he answered. Eventually he decided that there was no real point in conversing with de Croix when he was hungry for blood, but _maybe_ he could delay his beating. He didn't feel comfortable with postponing his inevitable punishment, because it seemed cowardly and useless to do so, but he was willing to try anything at this point.

"Is it di Castellamonte, the deluded whore? Or perhaps Strongbow the half-blood? Or even that degenerate tarnished tool named Krieg-Windsor?" de Croix watched him eagerly, like a birdwatcher would to a rare avian or like a mantis would to an ignorant fly.

Darius deigned to keep his face and voice expressionless. "The Commander." He said instead.

"The Commander," de Croix snorted humorously. "Really? _Him_? Do you know what he's done, candidate."

"Yes." The lie emerged roughly, and he wondered if de Croix would take the bait or laugh at him for being pathetic.

"What do you know?" de Croix challenged him.

"Enough." Darius replied laconically.

De Croix looked to hit him, and he mentally braced himself for the psychic force to beat his face into the ground again, but it seemed that he had made the nobleman _think_, and every second the spider spent in thought was a second the fly spent in relative safety.

"Enough, you say." Alexander de Croix moved close to him, enough to make alarm bells ring in Darius' head. "Define… _enough_."

"He has served Noxus." Darius lied again. "Admirably."

"Yes, yes." De Croix said impatiently. "Yes, we all know _that_. He served alongside Boram Darkwill at the Battle of Baden and did all the heroics expected from a moronic, unimportant blade-wielder with hopes of being given a pat on the head by his father and a recommendation for a better post."

"It is," Darius decided to return the man's words, feeling oddly giddy despite the dangerous proximity the spider had to him. "He had nothing but a small hope to ascend, and he succeeded in doing so through valiant battle- that is admirable, and true to the Noxian way, in itself."

"It is nothing to admire." De Croix snapped like an injured thing. "Nothing!"

"He went to battle," Darius built his own momentum from de Croix's slip of the tongue. "Even if nothing was expected of him, even if he had nothing to look forward to."

"He ran straight into the enemy like a crapulous fool because he has nothing." De Croix sneered.

"Without fear." Darius countered. "Without hesitation- and his gamble resulted in an elevation of his post."

De Croix hissed like a displeased cat. "Bah! It doesn't matter."

"It does," Darius said smoothly. "Because you asked."

"The little savage thinks he's so clever." De Croix sneered as he held out his hand. The crushing force settled on Darius' throat, and he felt the familiar feeling of helplessness settle over him. As much as he wanted to struggle, he stopped himself from doing so- and his action surprised de Croix so much that the man dropped him.

Darius gave a hacking cough as he fought to breathe, staring up at the nobleman with eyes that were being stung with sweat.

"Struggle, little savage." De Croix sounded desperate, his rage hollow.

"Why should I?" Darius taunted him.

"Struggle," de Croix ordered as he shifted his hand, sending Darius flying into one of the bookcases. The noise of the blow echoed in the little office and sent several thick volumes crashing into Darius' back and onto the floor with loud thumps.

Despite having heavy books falling into him, it was absolutely nothing compared to the choking he had suffered before. Certainly, he was still being _beaten_, but it was a familiar, physical pain rather than being choked by something he could never fight against- he felt relieved, to say the least.

"Struggle!" de Croix snarled at him as he lifted him into the air. Yet again, Darius held still, counting the seconds until de Croix judged him to be useless and sent him flying into a marble bust. Landing heavily on his arm, he exhaled sharply as it snapped underneath his weight. Breathing heavily as a ragged and throbbing pain blossomed from his elbow, he tried to move it but his nerves would not obey him, driving him over the edge with a stinging pain that seemed to spread to the rest of his body to join his dull hurts instead.

He tried to curl about wounded side, lowering his head as de Croix approached him slowly, cocking his head to one side like a sadistic parrot staring at a cracked open nut. Breathing became increasingly difficult- every single twitch of his body seemed to send more of the flaring agony through his frame.

"Ah, I seem to have broken my little toy." De Croix said with a twisted pout.

"You seem to-" Darius croaked out as he stifled the urge to scream. "Have snapped something."

"It is rather… unfortunate that you haven't collapsed into your silly little nap." Alexander sniffed.

"Losing your touch, I think." Darius wheezed.

"I did not." De Croix snorted with professional disdain.

"I'm not… exactly…" Darius pushed himself off the floor with his other hand even as another crippling wave of pure torture ran through his body. He screwed his eyes shut, panting heavily as he chewed the word out. "Unconscious."

"Are you implying," de Croix's face was suddenly next to his- the aristocrat was bent over on the floor and inspecting his work. "That I have become weaker, little savage?"

"Just saying," Darius sat up, nearly blacking out in doing so. As it was, he pulled himself back just in time by smacking his head against the wall and stared at de Croix blearily. "I'm not… out yet."

"It is a shame you've found… some _strange_ way to stay awake." De Croix reared back and tapped on his chin curiously.

"Strange indeed." Darius mumbled weakly.

"Perhaps it's time to move on," de Croix laid his fingers on his ensorcelled gauntlet, the red runes disappeared and were replaced by pale white runes that seemed to float in and out of existence. "To better avenues."

"Like what?" Darius asked him softly.

De Croix reached out and wrapped his armored fingers around Darius' broken arm. Unspeakable pain echoed through every single nerve, and Darius instinctively and futilely tried to quail away from the man as his grip tightened on his broken arm. He couldn't resist screaming now, and his hollow cry echoed through the entire room as de Croix twisted his unwilling arm into something unrecognizable as a limb.

But then something happened- a warm feeling began to flood from the crippled limb. His arm rearranged itself with disturbingly loud snaps. He felt strangely at peace as he stared down at his healed arm, and then there was no pain throughout his body- none at all.

"You're a healer," Darius said in disbelief. "That's why… that's why nothing shows, that's-"

"I am," He stroked his gauntlet, and the runes glowed an unholy red. "What I am."

And then there was an impossibly loud snap that took Darius to the brink of existence yet again as an invisible force snapped his arm and crushed it as if a large rock had just fallen onto his side. He screamed himself raw as he tried to back away. There was no escape- he was in a corner and de Croix was blocking the way.

Strange white light- and the same warm sensation. With fear, he realized what de Croix was doing- wounding him in an unspeakable way, and then healing him, and then-

Another snap, another injury to the bones of his right arm that made the bone pierce his flesh. Horrified, he stared at the exposed thing, at the marrow of his radial. He didn't even know that he was screaming.

White light filled his eyes and taunted him with its warmth. Quivering now, even though he did not have any wounds, he stared at de Croix with unadulterated fear in his eyes- and the spider reveled in it.

Angry red and yet another snapping of his bones- this time it was not restricted to his right arm. His left blossomed with unspeakable pain as well, and when he looked, the bones of his left arm were staring right back at him. He threw his head back, screaming and kicking his feet at the nobleman in front of him, but Alexander would not be denied.

White light. His wounds healed.

Red light. His legs now, snapping back on joints that were never meant to bend in a certain direction.

White light, spiteful light-

Red light, and his guts roiled in his frame as his arm broke again.

He didn't know that hours had already passed since Mohren had first taken him to de Croix's office, didn't know that de Croix prolonged each and every break as much as he could to savor his suffering. All Darius knew was that he was breaking slowly, and that he wanted nothing more than to pass out.

But every time he was at the brink, the white light was there, keeping him from going cold, from fading into the kinder abyss that was oblivion. He could not stop screaming, because the light healed his throat, healed his hurts, everything was only in his mind, his _mind_-

He felt quite like his brother then- all inhaling and no exhaling, choking on his own spit and his tongue as he tried to breathe and hold air in his lungs. "S-stop," He found himself saying. "Stop it."

"Or what, little savage?" de Croix had a wide smile on his face as the red light of his gauntlet reflected off his face and his merciless green eyes.

There was a very loud explosion at the other side of the room, about the same time as de Croix broke his arms for seemingly the nth time. Darius stared at him blearily as the white light restored his limbs and soothed his throat. Debris clouds billowed in their direction.

"Chief Instructor de Croix," An impossibly deep voice sounded. "I had thought you better."

_Oh, it's god._ Darius found himself thinking, and he wondered why he was laughing like a lunatic even as he marveled at the throng of people across the room. _It's god, going to take me away to my parents._

If he had been lucid at this point, Darius would have realized that Alexander de Croix had essentially woken up the entire Cathedral with his howls of agony, and that the training staff had broken down the door using an explosive runestone because it had been locked.

Even with stone walls, the multiple times the nobleman had broken his bones and had sent him howling to the cliffs of his awareness would have woken up the dead. As it was, Darius was almost at the very edge of his sanity, and thought he was imagining things when he saw the familiar faces.

"Chief," He called to di Castellamonte with more cheer than a drunken man. "Look, no hands," And he held up his arms- they were whole and unharmed for now, but his mind still imagined them broken.

Alexander de Croix halted in his torture, the sickly white runes on his gauntlet quickly faded into nothing. He stood up casually, edging away from the chortling thing on the floor that was Darius. Conrad, a bag of medical supplies by his side, watched the candidate laughing on the floor from behind de Montfort with apprehension.

"Better, yes, of course, I deserve better." De Croix was not exactly sane at this point himself- driven drunk by the sheer helplessness and agony that Darius was radiating. "I deserve better than this post."

"You," de Montfort said as his hand went to the sword strapped to his side. "Are insane."

He would have drawn the beautiful blade if it wasn't for the fact that Chief di Castellamonte had held out her hand in objection.

"Sir," Suzanne di Castellamonte cocked her head towards the other Chief Instructor. There was an indescribable fury in her eyes. Her hand was absolutely quivering in rage. "I request permission to put down de Croix."

"Granted." De Montfort grunted out as he shifted to one side.

"Suzanne, _Suzanne_." Alexander de Croix spread his hands wide, smiling toothily at the training staff by the door. "Why don't you just forgive me?"

"I will not." Chief di Castellamonte pulled out her twin daggers.

There was a fight, which Conrad would delightfully tell him in great detail when he would come to in the infirmary. Chief di Castellamonte was a master of blades, and she had gained renown for being able to move so fast that she seemed to vanish and reappear somewhere else. De Croix had sent a massive force to bear against her, but the Chief Instructor seemed to have flickered out of existence by then. The force plowed into the wall behind her instead, leaving behind a sizable crack in the solid rock. Alexander de Croix had looked around then, obviously straining his ears to hear her footsteps. It only took a blink of an eye, and then she was behind him, burying both daggers into his throat. Blood flew everywhere as she twisted her blades and sent his head flying. But since he was delirious from the trauma, Darius missed all of _that_. His mind had just caught up to his latest state, and he stared down at his hands as if he had just obtained the limbs for the first time in his life, marveling at the concept of having arms to use.

With de Croix disposed of, the training staff crowded around him before they realized he would need air. De Montfort watching the scene impassively as Conrad sat by Darius' side and inspected him from head to toe.

"Gods above, you're just a delightful little mindfucked thing, aren't you?" Conrad said to him as he practically threw down his bag of supplies next to him.

"I have arms." Darius told him.

"Of course you do." Conrad said soothingly, and then he eyed him worriedly. "I… I have no idea what to do for you. He healed you up, so there's nothing wrong with you really, but you're just-"

"I have arms." Darius repeated.

"Fuck, tell me he didn't drive you insane. That's just what we need: more nutjobs in this entire academy."

Conrad slapped him with the back of his fist.

Yet another burst of pain, and Darius braced himself for the eventual scornful and soothing white glow, but there was no light. He blinked in bemusement, like a child scammed out of a toy, and then stared at Conrad with something like a frown on his face that didn't feel quite right.

"Where's the light?" He asked dazedly.

"Commander, I have no idea how to fix him." Conrad said over his shoulder. "I think he's fucking gone, no thanks to your mad-as-fuck sadist over there."

"Where's the light?" Darius repeated.

De Montfort stared down at the babbling candidate before he cocked his head towards Chief di Castellamonte. The woman bowed her head and then moved forward to see if she could help her candidate.

"There is no light." Chief di Castellamonte was next to try her luck this time, squatting next to him. Her hands were covered with blood and the familiar scent wound its way through Darius' nose and into his mind. He automatically looked down at his arms, blinking in surprise when he saw that no bones were jutting out this time to greet him.

"I'm fine?" He asked bemusedly.

"Yes, you are, candidate." Castellamonte said slowly.

"I… I wasn't fine before." Darius stared up at her, realizing who it was and reminding himself dimly that he should stand up and offer his respects. He tried to move, but his mind would not cooperate with him, and when he did manage to get on his knees he collapsed into a little puddle on the floor.

He felt like a broken mirror- all jagged pieces of trauma-induced memory loss and broken reflections of torture and questionable pain- but he was still _whole_. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea that he _felt_ fine, but he _knew_ he was not fine. It was a puzzling argument to be sure, and he fought with the idea that he was actually dreaming and he had not just suffered through the most horrible torture imaginable- having his bones broken and then healed up, and then broken again and then healed up…

"But you're fine now." Castellamonte said. Unlike Conrad, her voice was not at all soothing. It was strong and calm, and he latched onto that strength with desperation he didn't know he had.

"I'm fine now." He said to her.

"Yes, you're fine now." She said patiently.

"And I'm… not fine." He tried to stand up again and failed, banging his jaw against the floor that sent reverberations through his skull. She did not help him, even holding a hand back to stop Conrad from moving forward.

"I'm not fine." He repeated bemusedly.

"You're fine." She pressed on.

"I am?" He stared up at her.

"You are." She confirmed.

"…I wasn't fine." He looked at his hand, and then at his elbow. "But now I'm fine."

"Isn't it about time," Chief di Castellamonte looked down at him crossly. "For you to stand up properly, candidate?"

"Oh yes," Darius mumbled out as he tried to push himself off the floor again. "Yes, I should. Yes, ma'm."

She watched him stand up haltingly, and then when he did manage to stay on the balls of his feet, he quivered with the consistency of gelatin and weaved from side to side like a drunken man- but at _least_ he was standing up.

"Well done, candidate." She said to him approvingly.

"Yes ma'm." Darius said groggily. "Thank you ma'm."

"I can't tell you how to fix him." Chief di Castellamonte told Conrad. "Except to give him time to recover, but at least he can stand up."

"Of course, that's all we need- a candidate that could stand up but not say anything else other than 'I'm fine', or 'Look, I have arms'." The hospitalman retorted nastily.

"I _am_ fine." Darius said sullenly.

"Yes you are," Chief di Castellamonte told him. "And it's _something_, Conrad. We might as well celebrate the small things."

"I'm not small." Darius protested childishly.

"You know what's small? Your peni-" Conrad was about to finish, but the Chief di Castellamonte cuffed him on the back of the head.

* * *

**Author's Note:** It is rather harsh, what I did. But I have been told that it's entirely reasonable given the feud. We'll see if Darius gets better, won't we?


	12. Stuck In Rewind

**[STUCK IN REWIND]**

_… I have been looking_

_steadily at these elms_

_and seen the process that creates_

_the writhing, stationary tree_

_is torment, and have understood_

_it will make no forms but twisted forms._

**Elms (Louise Glück)**

* * *

**THREE MONTHS LATER…**

It is difficult to fully define what type of trauma Darius suffered under Alexander de Croix. Certainly, one could argue that it was more of a physical sort, because he had been thrown about for a good five weeks before the spider had decided to break his bones repeatedly, and after every session his fellow candidates would hold him down and pummel him until he was unconscious. One could also argue that it was more of a psychological assault, because the beatings had been random, and Darius had felt like a hunted thing that could not sleep and think, and after his bones had been broken, he had been healed up before it would be broken again.

Regardless if it was psychological or physical, the fact of the matter remained that he did not feel like himself anymore.

A full three months had passed since Alexander de Croix had met his end at the blades of Chief di Castellamonte. An inquiry had been held within the first week: both the Chief and her candidate had been absolved of all blame by the end of it, despite protests and repeated calls for another inquiry by the House of Croix. It would have certainly have resulted in another feud if it wasn't for the fact that the Houses of Strongbow, Montpelier and Montfort had risen up in support of their respective scions and of the House of Castellamonte- the lesser nobility, it seemed, looked after its own. The grudge festered in the House of Croix because Maynard was still Head of House, but there would be no trouble for the next few years at least, not with four Houses standing with each other. As far as politics went, it was rather piddling to have four lesser Houses banding against a more prestigious one, and so nothing really changed in the political landscape of Noxus.

Darius had spent a whole three weeks in the infirmary trying to deal with the concept of being whole and yet _not_. The physical aspect was easy enough- he had been healed before the spider had died, and so there was really _nothing_ wrong with him. He could still exercise without feeling any pain, could go through his drills without any complaint and keep up his regimen throughout his rehabilitation. It was the mental aspect that was difficult for him- he had never been one to trust easily, and he had always been so stubborn in his ways and reticent about his own feelings.

For the first week, despite repeated attempts by Conrad and the rest of the infirmary staff; Darius kept sullen and quiet, resorting to violence when pressed. He did not want to talk about his experiences at all, and would huddle resentfully in his cot like a child being punished until Conrad finally gave up and ranted to Chief di Castellamonte about her '_fucking blockheaded favorite candidate'_.

After that, at the end of the day when exercises were finished for all the flags, Chief di Castellamonte would come in from the field and talk to him. Unlike any other person, she did not press him to talk about what he had experienced; she did not ask how he was feeling or if he was having dreams. She simply sat down next to his bed and talked to him about the weather, about his education, about the other candidates in Dominance, about how the food in the infirmary was and on his axe-work and if he was still exercising, and it was a welcome change for everyone when Darius finally decided to open his mouth by the end of the second week and admit that he had felt scared out of his mind when he was being tortured, that he had wanted to weep but could not when he had been pinned down by his fellow candidates, that he wanted to stop dreaming about gnashing teeth and grinning skulls and a soft white light that never stopped to haunt him.

Suffering from an acute attack of guilt, Conrad had nothing to say on how to help Darius at that point, because he had previously told the young man to ignore his discomfort. Chief di Castellamonte had ordered him to keep busy, and informed him that everything had happened in the past- there was no point in letting it decide his future- he either learned from the experience or failed because of it.

It was during the third day of the second week that di Castellamonte took the time to talk to him about his parents. He would remember that day forever, like a brand burnt onto his flesh. The summer heat was giving way to cooler winds, and the dark monsoon clouds were gathering in the distance.

Earlier that day, Conrad had had done some blood tests and had measured Darius' height, weight and muscle mass because the younger man was getting taller and bulkier even if he hadn't changed his intake in weeks. Results in hand, the hospitalman shrewdly determined that Darius' growth was a result of the peculiarities of Alexander's magic. Apparently, having his bones broken and then healed repeatedly had evidently made Darius stronger, and the rest of his body that had been left relatively untouched had only flourished with the healing magic.

When the Chief went into the infirmary that cool afternoon then, there was an aura of delight inside the ward: Conrad was practically tittering with glee at his results, and Darius was feeling slightly better about his torment even if there were still hollows under his eyes and a worn and tired expression on his face.

"Good afternoon, Chief." Darius had greeted her when he saw her. She pulled the black and red peaked hat off her head- by some unspoken agreement between the instructors; they had all decided to change into their monsoon attire and now she was wearing a water-resistant leather coat over her usual ensemble- and then had returned his greeting with a casual nod.

"Candidate," She had said smoothly as she took her customary place by his bed. "I heard that you've become something of a superhuman."

"Not at all, ma'm." Darius had replied rather sheepishly.

They sat in silence then. Di Castellamonte seemed to be content to simply sit and watch him impassively. Darius on the other hand had been sitting on a question that had been eating away at him since Conrad had first called the Chief Instructor to the infirmary.

"Ma'm, may this candidate ask a question?" He had asked after some time.

"You may." She had replied as she placed the peaked cap on top of her knees. She could have been a very convincing statue at that moment: there was not a single strand of hair out of place on her head; her clothes were absolutely impeccable even if she had just come from the field; her eyes were staring down at him without any sort of real emotion.

"This candidate is… mildly curious why the Chief Instructor is here," Darius had said awkwardly. As her expression never changed, he had tried to not quail under her unemotional stare. "Rather… excuse me for my rudeness but I just… why _are_ you here, Chief Instructor?"

He had braced himself for her retaliatory strike- he had felt that he did not address her as well as he thought he could have- but she had excused his impudence.

"Did your father ever… talk about me?" She had tilted her head at him, a shadow of an emotion on her face.

Darius had shaken his head.

"I see." Her voice was calm, but her eyes were still roiling with that emotion.

Darius had found himself pondering on the emotion that he was seeing in her as she seemed to debate on her next words.

Darius couldn't quite pin the emotion to something at that point- was it regret? It seemed too raw to be regret. Jealousy then? That was too much of a petty emotion, he did not think that the Chief would be so base. Was it sorrow? She did not seem depressed. Was it anger? The feeling did not seem right for her. In the way of people who placed others on a pedestal, he found that he couldn't imagine her having any other emotion other than a sort of cold and distant pride.

"He never did tell you, of course. That was his way." Chief di Castellamonte's lip had twisted into a frown. It was a familiar expression; she had always frowned at them all, but her frowns had always looked slapped on, wooden. This frown was different now, because that mysterious emotion had suddenly given it _depth_. Her next words had sounded as if she was asking herself rather than the candidate in front of her. "I expected that, but why do I still feel surprised?"

Darius realized then that what she was practically broadcasting was raw and unadulterated _spite_. It was a strange thing to see her so filled with _emotion_, particularly one so childish- he had always seen her with nothing in her eyes and in her harsh voice.

"Did… did you know him?" Darius ventured meekly.

"_Knew_ him? I _loved_ him." She had given a grim chuckle as she had reared back and stared up at the ceiling. Darius had watched her throat, he didn't know _why_ he was doing it but he _did_, and he saw a long and white scar on her neck stretch gently with every word that emerged from her mouth. "Ah, perhaps I still do."

He had no idea what to think then. Chief di Castellamonte having some sort of past with his father certainly did explain her intervention against de Croix and the constant visitations better than thinking that she felt _responsible_ for him, but then again- with _that_ emotion behind her eyes, it was glaringly obvious that his father had inflicted sort of wound and he had absolutely no idea what it was because Hystaspes had _never_ been talkative about _himself_- war stories he had aplenty, personal tales he did not.

"What do you know of your parents, candidate?" The Chief seemed at that point to have aged immensely.

It occurred to Darius then that he never really _knew_ his parents.

He had always seen his parents as _perfect _and unquestionable: his mother was ever-patient; his father had always been strong. His mistake all those years ago had taken them away from him before he had become mature enough to see Hystaspes and Athenais as _people_ instead of gods, and now he was faced with a woman- former lover, admirer, stalking spinster, he wasn't quite sure- who seemed to know his parents' intimate secrets. It was disconcerting, but at the same time he found himself wanting to hear more about two people he had spent a majority of his life with but did not truly _know_.

"Not much," He had admitted somewhat shamefully.

"Well. That is rather irresponsible of the two of them," And she had leaned back into her chair, relaxing for the first time in weeks it seemed. "And I will correct that. I suppose that we should begin with your father. Wolfman, that was what the Demacians called him, owing to his controlled ferocity and dogged resilience- no matter what they did, he would still remain standing… that is, until they cut his leg out from underneath him. I suppose they _do_ have a sense of humor." She had looked down at him, still such a statue with her straight back and her rough voice. "The Wolf's Pit here was named after him."

"Did he attend the Academy?" Darius had tilted his head.

"No." She had replied with a sort of strange smile that did not quite fit on her face. "He didn't think that he needed it, even if he had absolutely nothing to his name until he was conscripted. After which he displayed an immeasurable bravery on the field."

Darius had found himself staring at her curiously. He could not imagine his father refusing to attend the best military academy in the entire city-state. The older man had always been opportunistic, had always encouraged his sons to seize initiative and to take whatever offer for a better life they could possibly have. This was a side of the man that he had no idea about, and to compound his bemusement, the woman in front of him sounded as if she was talking about someone else entirely.

"How did you… come to know him?" Darius had probed.

"As a blademaster under his command, Commander du Couteau allowed me to serve on the front lines with the rest of the infantry- he understood my need to seek glory and honor for my House." She had caught his questioning gaze then, because she had continued. "Though I was trained by the Commander himself to mimic his fast step, I am not an assassin; I did not want to remain in the shadows like a skulking pathetic thing. There is no glory to be found in the dark, no accolades for those who tread in the night."

"You fought beside my father then." Darius had pointed out. He had heard his father's stories but he had wanted to hear about his own father from someone else who clearly knew more about him than his own son. "How was he, as a warrior?"

"At the second battle of Baden, at Mogron Pass, at the Howling Marsh- I can name several more battles but those three were the most worthy to note." Di Castellamonte had chosen to elaborate further. "Your father was Noxus' finest, one of the most ruthless and bloody axe-wielders on this pitiful earth, aside from Sion and Urgot. But unlike Sion, your father knew how to _control_ his anger. And unlike Urgot, your father knew _caution_. I suppose that is why he only lost his leg, rather than his hands or his sense of self-perseveration. As our bloody engagements increased, I found myself… _admiring_ him, and… I will not say more."

Darius shifted uneasily in his seat. Of course, it should have occurred to him that his father would have had others before his mother, but to have _that_ person in front of _him_- he didn't know what to feel, or do, or even _say_.

"And your mother," Di Castellamonte had let out a vindictive sigh- obviously she did not want to talk about the person she perceived to be the _other_ woman. "What do you know of your mother? Do you know what she did during her conscription?"

"She didn't want me to know." He had said uncomfortably, somehow managing to both regret and look forward to every passing second of their conversation with a sort of bizarre curiosity.

"She served under Commander du Couteau, as I did." Chief di Castellamonte had tilted her head at him, utterly shameless as she elaborated on another target for her ire. "Not as a blademaster, but as a spy. Her talents lay in subterfuge and trickery- not in the fast step, not in knife work or in glorious battle. Still, she was a wily one; there were times that a battle would be certain to go awry, and then she would be sent to the field: to coerce, to infiltrate, to do whatever it took for the odds to be weighed towards a Noxian victory."

Darius had remembered the day of the execution, had remembered the red-haired man in the balcony who was cradling a two year old child in his arms. His mother had upon that person with veneration in her eyes and the man had given her a heavily-veiled smile. He had wondered how the man would look like now and came to the conclusion that not much would have changed; it would only have been two years or three at most. The child would be taller now, and would stand perhaps at his hip instead of his knee.

"He was at the execution." Darius had found himself saying. "That Commander."

"Yes, she was _everyone's_ favorite." And di Castellamonte's tone then was sardonic and black. "Why he felt her deserving of _his_ presence, I do not know. She _failed_ him."

"Ma'm." Darius had said, purely because he had nothing else to say.

"Simply think," She had begun with a wistful tone in her voice, indulging in a possible future that only she could understand. "What could have been, if your father had only listened to me, hm? You would have had a House name when you were born- he was so _close_ to having one before he left the field- and a better life."

"If he had listened to you…?" Darius had asked her, half-anxious and half-excited to know what exactly she meant.

"_'The Wolfman was being an emotional fool'_, that was what we all thought. I called him worse names." Di Castellamonte had stated. "It was a disgrace, I _told_ him so, to throw away everything he had for that _failure_ of a spy, but he took my insults in stride. He never did listen to anyone but your mother, never did place anyone else's opinion above his own. I did not believe him when he told me that he would be leaving the military for _her_. Instead of seeking glory with me, as he _should_ have done, he retired once your mother's conscription was over. And then you were born," She had given a laugh that did not fit her face and her tone of voice. "And now _you_ are here, and they are _dead_, and I find myself seeing the two of them in _you_. It is such a strange feeling, candidate, to be seeing _both_ of them in one person."

"I'm… I'm not sure I understand, ma'm." The walking result of what the Chief perceived as Hystaspes' and Athenais' mistake had said sheepishly.

"Did they ever tell you how they met?"

Darius shook his head.

"At a certain place, at a certain time, your mother was caught by Demacians. Her mission had been successful, but she had been intercepted on her way back to her rendezvous point." Di Castellamonte had looked to be reciting from a book, albeit a book that seemed to give her a paper cut every time she finished a word. "She refused to bend, of course. That is our way. The Demacians tortured her for her silence, then strung her about the branches of a tree and left her to die as an example to other Noxian spies. Your father was patrolling that stretch of the woods, and he found her. By all rights, he _should_ have put her to the knife. It would have been better for everyone if he did and even your mother begged for him to do so. But no, he picked her up and took her back behind our lines, and then everything simply went… out of control."

"Out of control?" Darius had echoed, feeling more confused than ever.

"Why would you spare a spy who was _caught_?" Her voice had been filled with nothing but animosity; her eyes had been beseeching him for some sort of explanation that he could never procure. "It absolutely _confounds_ me, candidate, until this day: why did he even take pity on her when our way is to grant honorable death? Why did he let her live when she herself _begged_ for release?"

"I don't know." Darius had said awkwardly. Not for the first time since their deaths, he wished vainly that his parents were still alive, if only to explain to him why Chief di Castellamonte was so spiteful.

It was difficult to imagine that they were talking about the same people. Darius only knew the gruff man he called father, the calm woman he called mother. She only remembered the woman she had called her rival, it seemed, and the man she had once called her… _whatever_ it was that she called him: battle brother, lover, role model, _everything_.

Steeped in thought of their different shared pasts with the same people, Darius tried to remember his childhood while she stared far away at some memory only she could see. The silence was an understanding of the radical differences that Hystaspes the _man_, Hystaspes the _warrior_ and Hystaspes the _father_ had been for the two of them, of the perplexing enigma that was Athenais the _woman_, Athenais the _spy_ and Athenais the _mother_.

"I never saw my father use his battle axe." Darius had mused out loud despite a mysterious ache in his chest. He was uncertain as to why he was talking about such in front of Chief di Castellamonte, but he wanted to say it anyway. "Not once."

"He traded his skill with it for a butcher's knife, or a miner's pick, or a woodcutter's saw- whatever it was that he did afterwards." She had said dismissively. "Such a waste of talent- he could have returned to us at any time, but he chose to… _deteriorate_ in that disgusting hole in the ground. He could have lived better."

"But he was always proud of it." Darius had added, and the memories of the massive man regaling him and Draven with tales of his exploits as his mother cooked in the kitchen and reminded him to wash his hands bubbled to the surface- slightly lopsided teeth, big smile and crinkled eyes.

"Hanging up on the wall, rusting away like his martial skill." This defense of his father's choice too she had dismissed.

"And he never stopped reminding my brother and me about what it stood for." He had ventured, even as flashes of bygone days moved through his mind: of afternoons spent in imaginary battlefields, climbing over and ducking under his father's bulk, tapping on his wooden leg and pulling at his beard.

"His expertise, thrown away into the gutter for the sake of some absurd emotion and some… _random_ bint." She had sniffed disdainfully. "Given enough training here, you would not be that weak, I think."

"_Weak_?" He had echoed uncertainly, the memories whittled back into nothing.

"Ah, that is a different matter entirely, one that he always reminded _me_ of. What _did_ he tell you about love, candidate?"

"That it was a confusing word." He had said almost childishly.

She threw back her head and gave a hoarse laugh. Darius had squirmed uncertainly. This had been her second laugh thus far, and it was still so strange to watch and to listen to- it _was_ bitter and filled with a wound inflicted before his time that had obviously festered into something gangrenous.

"Senior Instructor?" He had ventured.

"A 'confusing word'." She had breathed out in between chuckles. "Candidate, it is not at all confusing. It is extremely simple: love is a _weakness_, and it will either kill _you_, or the one that you _supposedly_ love. The only thing you can love, without repercussion, without strife, is your state."

He had eyed her hesitantly and then had decided to point out her earlier remark simply because he was still so confused and he had wanted to know what was so wrong with _everything_. "… But you mentioned that you loved him."

"And I was a fool to do so." She had replied primly- obviously she had excused his impudence for the nth time. "Even gods make mistakes, candidate."

He had absolutely no idea what to say to _that_- really, the entire conversation was extremely uncomfortable for him.

"But, you are here now." She had said, almost to herself. "Mistakes can be repaired, weakness hammered out."

"I don't think… I don't think he made a mistake." And Darius had said this very softly, because he did not want to insult his instructor and deny his parents the respect they obviously deserved.

"You are so innocent," Chief di Castellamonte had reached out at him then. Darius had let her give him a pat on his cheek, unsure of what she wanted from him other than a willing ear to hear all her complaints and her regrets. She looked at him then in the way that only an ignored aunt or a jilted lover could do when faced with the product of a union they had never approved of: with a sort of bitter pride and a cold smile. "Fear not. Whatever foolish ideals he instilled in you, I will rectify. Whatever useless values she lent to you, I will purge. _That_ is the sworn duty of an instructor, candidate."

Her words had haunted him for the rest of the week, and it was not because she knew more about his parents than he did; it was not because she obviously still felt hurt after his father had rejected her in order to marry his mother; it was not because she thought him some sort of instrument to get back at the person who had wronged her; it was not because she had eased herself into the role of surrogate parent. Her words haunted him because she had felt that his parents had raised him _wrong_.

Darius did not know any better, that was true, but he did not think he could have been the person he was if Hystaspes and Athenais had not taught him the way they did. They had taught him to be responsible, to fulfill his promises and to give his absolute in whatever duty they saw fit to give him.

Darius had not been given the best childhood, had not been raised on velvet couches and had never held a silver spoon in his hand but he knew that he would not trade his parents for anything else in the world. If he could only afford necromancy, he probably would have tried to resurrect them- he ached to be held again without fearing a reprisal, longed to hear their voices throwing him wisdom and well-intentioned warnings, yearned to have even a small sliver of their never-ending patience and damnable understanding.

Simply put, now that he knew _more_ of what they had _been_, he found himself missing his parents anew with all his heart- but he knew that it was _his_ fault that they were gone, and if he could weep again, he would have.

But life did not wait for regretful teenagers. At the start of the second month, Darius had informed the training staff that he finally felt fine, that he could tell the difference between what he perceived in his mind and what he was sensing with his hands. They had him transferred back into Dominance Company that same day, and his fellow candidates had welcomed him back with knowing looks in their eyes and ready smiles on their mouths.

The transition was what his instructors would call a success, because he was never bothered by his fellow candidates afterwards, but it did not feel that way to Darius. The scars were still there no matter how much he tried to tell himself he was fine. He still could not sleep on some nights when he felt that the entire room would trounce on him. He could never tolerate anyone staring at him for too long, because then he would start to wonder what they were thinking, and he would lash out whenever someone he did not recognize would touch him- even a brush on his arm would sent his fist or his axe flying into the person's face.

The trauma of having his bones broken and healed up repeatedly had torn gaps in his memories that he felt mysteriously frustrated over, because he couldn't remember, but at the same time he felt strangely relieved because he didn't _want_ to remember the sound of snapping bones, the excruciating pain that reverberated through his nerves and the sadistic white light that followed and haunted him with its pleasant heat.

Training intensified, if it was at all possible to do so, when the staff took them to the sea for a whole week. The swimming aspect of the program did not really matter in the candidates' overall performance, they had been told, because most of them were going into the army and not into the navy. Still, Darius couldn't help but feel mortified by the end of the week: he could not swim, and this section of the program was the only part that he failed miserably and horribly.

After all, he had never swum in his life. Upon arriving at the beach, the instructors had them do exercises until they were well and truly tired, and then they tied weights to their arms and legs. Without preamble, the instructors had thrown candidates into the raging waves, screaming at them to swim two hundred yards out to touch a buoy and then to come back.

Darius did not know how to negotiate with the ocean, did not know how to keep his head above the waves. At one point in time, he sank like a rock and had to be bodily carried out and thrown onto the black sand by Senior Instructor Krieg-Windsor, with Conrad beating on his chest to make sure that he still knew how to breathe air.

"Oh thank the gods; I don't want to _have_ to kiss you." The man had told him with a grimace, and Darius had stared at him in utter bemusement until another candidate washed up with water in their lungs and the hospitalman had to give them mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He found himself making a face that sent Strongbow into a fit of muffled laughter.

Once sea week had ended, the instructors took them to the jagged Noxian peaks. They had learned how to read maps and to navigate using compasses and runestones in the lecture halls, but now the instructors tested their very limits. It was another week of torture, but of a different kind: yet again they were loaded down with one hundred pound weights, but now they were restricted to one meal a day and the instructors began throwing sharp volcanic rocks at stragglers and beating at the backs of their legs with switches made of young tree branches. Their orders were pretty much the same: go to a certain place and be back in time for the only meal you would ever get for the day. Hunger was an excellent motivator and exhaustion even more so.

Several candidates were injured during the mountain phase. Whether the wounds were inflicted willingly or unwillingly it did not really matter. Those who wanted to stay with the company were healed and then sent back. Even Darius was not an exception- he had broken his ankle while scaling a mountain, and had to be held down to be healed because he was still not comfortable with healing magic in general.

"I'm actually pleased," Strongbow had shared with him privately during a quiet night spent as firewatch. "That no one wandered off and died this time."

"People wander off?" Darius had asked him as he chewed vigorously on the thick strips of jerky he had been given as a ration for the day.

"Well, obviously they don't remember how to read a map." The archer had shrugged casually. "It's not really my problem."

From the mountains, the instructors took them to the insect-filled swamps. The packs were a familiar weight by then, hunger an old foe that was easy to ignore given the right mindset. The instructors threw in a new obstacle: sleep-deprivation. Where they had once been able to obtain a good eight hours of rest in between trials, the instructors hounded them to the edges of their minds by jumping on candidates who drifted off, by shaking trees and letting the pigment bugs inside keep the candidates awake with their human-like screams.

New tasks were given, in addition to the usual foot patrols and troop movements; they were given specific places to assault and to defend, pitted against other equally exhausted companies. There were many moments where candidates simply dropped into the sucking mud, giving in to gravity, exhaustion and hunger. Seeing hospitalmen like Conrad diving after candidates who were being eaten by the swamps became a regular occurrence.

"Of course we could just let them die," Conrad had told him after spitting a clod of dirt into Darius' eye. "But then again if we did that, none of you would remain for the Crucible. You got sucked into a bog too."

"This _isn't_ the Crucible?" Darius had asked him, aghast.

"No, this is the training _for_ the Crucible." The hospitalman had said with a roll of his eyes.

_If this was training for the Crucible,_ his mind had told him nastily. _Then what kind of torture would the Crucible itself be?_

There were others in the company who held onto the very thin hope that they were already doing the Crucible, but even that was wrestled from their hands on the last day of the swamp phase.

"Why are we hard on you?" Chief di Castellamonte had asked them after a particularly exhausting afternoon of wading through putrid swampland and engaging one of their sister companies in mock warfare that gave Darius more than his fair share of cuts thanks to his frontline style. For his part, he had crippled three candidates and they all had to be sent to the healers because the damage was too much to simply slap a bandage over. "It is because next week shall be the week of the Crucible. Next week, most of you will be gone- dead or otherwise sent home."

They had returned to the Academy that same day, and Darius had collapsed into his bunk soon after showering because he simply was too exhausted. It was a good thing also, that the instructors had worn him down so much- he did not dream.

Darius didn't know how many hours had passed before someone called his name.

He opened his eyes a crack, and then focused on the face that was peering at him through the darkness of the longhouse. The proximity unnerved him, and he instinctively sent his fist flying into the other person's face. Lucky for the two of them, the other person ducked his head with a muffled curse.

"Easy with the fist, big guy!" The person said to him as he held both hands up in surrender. Darius' heart was pounding in his chest as he pushed himself up and threw his weight against the headrest of his bunk.

"What?" He breathed out, trying to ignore the palpitations in his chest, trying to tell himself that he was safe now- this was Dominance Company and these people would not _hurt_ him so.

"We're going to give Varinius a blanket party before the Crucible tomorrow." The familiar, ruddy face of Candidate Hawklight said to him. The man was named Hawklight and only that- he was not a noble at all. "I thought you would want to, seeing as he did come from Adamant. It's his last day with us too."

"A blanket party?" He repeated. "What's…"

"It's what they did to you." Hawklight said, and Darius resisted the urge to remember, to feel the heavy blanket on top of his frame and to struggle against the gag. He pushed himself out of his memories with difficulty, reminding himself that Hawklight was still in front of him, watching him, judging him-

"No." Darius said, and he felt sick when he said it.

"It'll be good for you." Hawklight chided him gently. "They did it to you after all."

"Who told you that?" Darius asked him warily- he didn't think that his fellows from Dominance would be aware of his beatings, of the numerous times the candidates from Adamant had held him down and had made him weak and utterly helpless.

"_Everyone_ knows." Hawklight said, as if it was a very basic thing like breathing or why the sky was blue.

"What do you mean everyone knows?" Darius hissed at him.

"Those bitches from Adamant," Hawklight cocked his head over to where Varinius was sleeping in his bunk. "Liked to brag."

Darius followed his stare and tried to imagine himself pummeling the other candidate with an improvised weapon. He found that he could not.

He had known Alexander de Croix's motives before the man's death, had known that he was being hunted down because he had killed the man's brother. Darius had sympathized with him then, and still did now- given the same situation, he would have done the same thing without a doubt: he would inflict misery onto the person who would hypothetically kill his brother with the same amount of relentlessness and cold-bloodedness. He could think of no reason why he would not pursue blood with blood.

He did not think he possessed the same fortitude with torture sessions. Frankly, he didn't know what to feel- he wanted revenge, certainly, but he knew what it felt like to be held down and then thrashed into unconsciousness and he wholeheartedly did not want to wish the same fate onto someone else so soon after he himself had been subjected to five whole weeks of seemingly random beatings.

"It'll be good for you." Hawklight repeated as he held out a bar of soap wrapped in a shirt.

Darius stared down at it and ignored the memory that was pushing against his mental gates- the sheer anxiety, the sleep-deprivation and the maddening sense of being watched and then trodden down... "I don't know." He mumbled.

"Don't be a wimpy Demacian, Dar. Just do it." Hawklight said with a roll of his eyes. "Do you really want to just let him slide for what he did to you?"

"No, I don't." He admitted.

"Then do it." Hawklight offered the shirt to him again.

Darius took it uncertainly- not knowing _what_ to feel, _if_ he should even be feeling anything at this moment. It seemed to him that someone else had taken a hold of his body, making him walk over to Varinius' bunk with the rest of Dominance Company. Two candidates pulled the blanket over Varinius' frame and then held on tightly, while a third pulled a washcloth over the man's mouth and then pushed downward. Like a single monstrous organism, Darius and the rest of the candidates fell on him, pummeling away with their makeshift weapons.

It was a bizarre experience, to have been the one being held down and to now be the one holding onto an instrument of hurt- he couldn't help but compare himself with the man in the bed, judging Varinius as the aristocrat squirmed helplessly in front of him. He found himself thinking that '_no, I did not cry like that_' and '_no, I didn't piss in my shorts'_ as he whacked away, each and every stroke harder than the last. Eventually he realized that he was the only one left still hitting the candidate, and he dumbly lowered his weapon when he saw that Varinius was nothing but a sobbing, quivering mass of flesh on the bed, the pungent smells of feces and urine permeating the air.

_How pathetic._ He found himself thinking.

"Well done." Hawklight said to him. "Do you feel better now?"

"I don't know." He said, and that was the truth.

He handed the weapon back to Hawklight and returned to his bunk, and as Varinius sobbed away, Darius found himself covering his head with his pillow and closing his eyes. As the night went on, he wished that he could tune out the man's muffled weeping, wanted to stop feeling so hollow and disgusted with himself for having done the deed and prayed that the soaring feeling of accomplishment at having shown the aristocrat how it had felt for him would never wane.

What people do not realize is that it is a debilitating thing to actually _know_ the pain that one could inflict on one's enemy. Because of the torture Darius had endured, he would be one of a few Noxian generals who would _never_ see any point in prolonging suffering, who would prefer quick executions instead of taking his time. He would hone his skills with the axe to the point of being able to quickly jump from man to man, beheading his targets as if they were sitting down and waiting for the axe to fall.

Was it a weakness to avoid wishing torture on others? In some circles of Noxus, Darius' eventual tendency towards outright murder instead of prolonged suffering would be perceived as a kindness that _must_ be stomped out in order to function correctly. It would certainly be inconvenient to have a torturer who could not bear to wound people for information, or to have an executioner who could not deliver the final blow.

He would still cut into arteries and nerves in order to cripple his opponents because it was expedient and it would get his foes out of his way quickly, but he was not a sadist- he did not enjoy wounding people for the sake of it and he certainly felt nothing but a distant pity at their suffering. Years after his own trauma, he still would feel disgusted with himself whenever he would see the effects of his work for an extended period of time, and would put whoever it was out of their misery shortly after with a quick stroke of his axe.

Sleep did not come easy, but eventually it did- and when he came to next, his ears were filled with a loud clanging noise that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Darius pushed himself out of bed and opened his eyes. The sight that awaited him was one that had played out many times over the course of one year- Strongbow was ringing a shrill bell that set everyone's teeth on edge as Krieg-Windsor yanked on blankets and sent still-sleeping candidates to the floor.

Chief di Castellamonte was in full regalia. Even though it was still too early in the day that the sun had not yet deigned to show itself to the rest of Runeterra, the Chief Instructor was impeccable as always, the familiar riding crop in one hand and her other clasped behind her back as she paced through the longhouse- a calm and constant thing in a veritable storm of clanging metal, flopping bodies and flying things.

"Warrior-children," Her hoarse voice somehow managed to soar above the cacophony of noise. "Today is the day of your baptism. Today you will be cast into the Crucible. For the next seven days, we will test you. We will shadow your every step, watch your every twitch and judge your every action- those we do not deem worthy will be cast off. If you survive, you will be given the right to live."

She seemed to look at him then, and he took great care to cast his gaze down, to keep himself busy with fixing his bed and gathering his things. "If you perish, then may whatever god have mercy on your soul, for Noxus will not."

The Crucible had begun.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Why yes I do not regret ending at a cliffhanger at all. It'll be great (and a thousand times more awkward) trust me.


	13. Climbing To Heaven

**[CLIMBING TO HEAVEN]**

_Now this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky,_

_And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the wolf that shall break it must die._

_As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk, the law runneth forward and back;_

_For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack._

**The Law of the Jungle (Ruyard Kipling)**

* * *

**FIVE HOURS LATER...**

During monsoon season, the entire city-state of Noxus had a disturbing predisposition towards flooding. No matter how much High Command prepared for the incoming storms by clearing storm drains, evicting illegal settlers from canals and removing blockages from pipes, at least one Ward would always be up to its collective eyes in water and the entire Basic Infantry School would sink and utterly succumb to the bloated marsh that it was built upon. Whenever _that_ occurred, current candidates and graduates of the School, the infamous Noxian exile Riven among them, would often joke that it was time for the water phase of the program.

In the city, it was always quite easy to tell which Ward would flood horribly- the animals would evacuate first, scurrying out of drain pipes, sewer covers, dark burrows and cracks in the cobbled pavement. Cockroaches and rats would take to the streets en masse; the sound of clicking chitin, flapping wings and flicking tails would fill the air. If there were still people in the streets, they would run from the slithering, skittering black horde, jumping on crates and up walls to avoid the parade of pests. Of course, one could simply stand in the way, because the creatures were fleeing for their lives and had only self-preservation in mind, but in the same way that mankind is afraid of the dark there is also an intrinsic fear of being consumed by creatures regarded as carrion eaters and pests.

In pigment bug farms, the insects would fill the air with their human voices as they crawled out of cracks in dead wood and headed up to the highest branches to escape the black flood that came from the craggy, treeless peaks. It was quite a sight to see if one was relatively new to Noxus: fields of charred and blackened trees, some as wide as three men holding hands and encircling the trunk, and every jagged bough laden not with fruit or leaves but with a million squealing portly bugs as they clamped their jaws onto the wood and sought shelter from what would surely be a devastating and deep flood.

In the countryside, it would seem as if the entire landscape would be bracing itself for the surge. The land around Noxus was naturally barren- trees were either tall and wide or short and stubby. The animals were, like Noxians themselves, robust, resilient, cunning and largely omnivorous. Apex predators like sleek mountain cats, gargantuan bears and black-furred wolves would head for higher ground. Insects, like red-headed centipedes and sinuous earthworms, would dig in deeper.

Coarse haired, ashen long faced hornless deer would scrape their long canines on tree trunks to mark their territory, carving out an '_I'll be back'_ note into the bark before they too would flee. Shaggy-haired black rats and pug-nosed mountain coati would relocate to temporary burrows or crawl into hollows of trees, only emerging after the deluge to band together in noisy groups and feast on fallen fruit, displaced eggs or on whatever unlucky thing that managed to drown. Regardless of their ferocity and grace, every single creature would flee before the wrath of nature.

Hours before the storm would reach the mainland, an eerie silence would settle over the landscape- crows would cease cawing, insects would stop chirping, bears and wolves would stifle the calls in their throats. At that point, the humans themselves would realize that the storm would be upon them, and it would be humanity's turn to be hectic and loud. Homes would be boarded up, sand bag barricades erected in flood-prone Wards and valuables tucked away into watertight cases. There would be a mad dash towards marketplaces and stores as humans would hoard food and survival supplies by the dozens.

And then the monsoon season would begin in earnest, battering Noxus for months with brief lulls of overcast weather in between tempests. Sheets of freezing rain would fall onto the earth as thunder would arc through the air and leave a metallic taste in one's mouth. Howling gales would topple trees; black tides would descend from the mountainside and fill dry gorges with churning water. Previously hellish and dusty landscapes would turn into deceptively flat planes of sucking black mud and sharp rocks.

In the city, the privileged would sit out the season in relative comfort, throwing logs into massive firepits to keep the cold and dampness away, drinking brandy to soothe frazzled nerves, preparing elaborate banquets, planning gatherings and playing parlor games to pass the time between hurricanes. The poor would huddle in what shelter they managed to procure, ignoring the gnawing of their stomachs and the aching of their bones, stifling sneezes and wiping away dripping mucus, self-medicating with bottles of cheap gin and passing out in drunken hazes. Depending on the person then, monsoon season could either be the peak of the social calendar or the deepest pit of hell.

For his part, Draven had a love-hate relationship with rainy days. When he had been younger, he had watched his parents frantically stockpile wood and supplies. Athenais would be drying fish by the thousands, nigh infusing the smell into their skin. Hystaspes would be gathering logs and bags of sand. Darius would alternate between helping the two of them and keeping him entertained. The storms would finally fall, and because they lived underground, the tunnels would inevitably flood and the water would be knee-deep at the very least, brackish and bubbly, filled with human refuse and whatever things that came from the upper levels.

On the worst days, Darius and Hystaspes would push sandbags up to the door because the water would be lapping at it; Athenais would ask for his help in piling their furniture up- even the beds were stacked one on top of the other. Hystaspes would hang a brazier from the ceiling using a chain, and would sporadically throw logs into it to keep the fire burning. All the fish and whatever else his mother had managed to squirrel away would go into crates lined with precious and expensive oilskin, to be opened only during mealtimes.

Sometimes his father would take a poker and a lantern, and then he would go out into the flooded tunnels and get rid of blockages. In the evening, the four of them would huddle underneath the dampened covers and do their best to sleep through the putrid smells and gushing waters outside. The only source of light would be from the brazier, and the only warmth would come from his father- who somehow always managed to radiate heat even through the coldest and wettest of nights.

When the Blood Brothers had stayed with Matron, Draven would watch Darius make the same controlled but frantic preparations, somehow managing to echo both his mother and his father in the way that he squirreled away food in watertight crates, stocked wooden logs and kept the fire burning in the little furnace they had in their room. There was always a leak somewhere, even if Darius had done his best to patch the roof, and so for every night of the monsoon the two of them would listen to the water dropping into a large basin that also served as a bathtub for the smaller children in the crèche- _plink, plink, plink_.

Sometimes they did not even have wood for the furnace. On those nights, Darius would push their beds together and the two of them would sleep, back to back. Draven envied him, not only because his older brother always seemed to know what to do, but also because his brother also stayed warm like his father while _he_ gradually grew colder if he wasn't covered by a suitable blanket.

Since his brother had gone to Boram's Point, however, Draven had found himself well and truly alone for the first time in his life because he was _not_ allowed to see his brother at all, and he could not even send mail because, as the snooty-faced officials had told him, '_Boram's Point prides itself on being able to give its officer-candidates a superior, combat-centered curriculum. Therefore the administrative staff cannot allow any disruptions to divert the candidates' attentions from their academic goals while inside the Academy_.'

Darius had lectured him for two months before he had left, and his teachings had been diverse and detailed: his advice ranged from a step-by-step guide on how to start a fire and how to cook his own food to tips on how to wash his own clothes and to sew up holes in his shirt. Darius had given his all in teaching Draven, even taking the eleven year old with him on a trip through the markets every Sunday and Wednesday, pointing out what was good to eat, how to cook it and then how to reuse it again if there were any leftovers. Certainly, if it was an actual award, the Older Brother of the Year medal would go to Darius.

But Draven was young, rather reckless and eleven years old: left alone to his own devices with a constant supply of money, he inevitably had spent most of his stipend on sweetmeats. If anyone bothered to ask him, he would say that it all started with the bags of candied walnuts he had seen in a store's display. He had bought one on a whim, and by the end of the day he had eaten through the whole bag and had discovered that he had a rather insatiable sweet tooth.

In the year since Darius had left, Draven had just about sampled every single kind of sweet available in the Noxian market, even taking a trip to the infamous Ivory Ward to purchase a dozen marzipan candies molded in the shape of fruits. Indeed, the floor was often littered with empty paper bags and crumpled waxed white paper candy wrappers, and the pantry doors remained open on a semi-permanent basis. In Draven's mind it was all money well-spent. If Darius had been there, the older Blood Brother probably would have beaten him within an inch of his life.

The three-roomed apartment that Draven now called home had been simple enough when Darius had bought it, and the older brother had considered it money well spent: the roof did not leak because the landlord was attentive; the warm red wallpaper was not peeling and the floorboards were made of a smooth and sturdy oak; the fully furnished rooms were lit up with runestone lanterns, and there was even a little black circular furnace next to the wall for heating; there was a flush toilet, which was a blessing considering that they had to make do with a bucket or a hole in the ground before; the boardinghouse itself was in Garnet Ward, a residential zone for those with middling incomes and a concern for entertainment in the form of the nearby Fleshing Arena.

Draven loved the Fleshing Arena- the money that didn't go into purchasing sweets and paying rent went into tickets for the bloodiest gladiatorial shows in all of Runeterra. He didn't know why he went there exactly. Watching people be torn apart by starved black panthers and desperate prisoners had lost its charm by the fifth repetition, and as a person whose parents had been executed he did not revel in the blood and in the gore.

No, what Draven liked to do was to sit in his seat, close his eyes and _imagine_. With the crowds' deafening voices reverberating in his chest every time a gladiator managed to survive another wave of creatures, it was not at all hard to imagine _them_ cheering for _him_, clapping their rough hands together, slamming their feet on the stone floor and chanting his name madly.

Was he being delusional? Certainly not, it was a healthy exercise for eleven year olds to daydream. Was he being narcissistic? _Yes_, and it would only get worse with time. Why was Draven so? Why did he have such a deep-seated urge to be noticed and to be known?

Having the most perfect older brother had its drawbacks after all- his parents had trusted Darius immensely. They had always taken _him_ aside and had always excluded Draven from their plans. He knew he was still a child but he had always felt resentful, had always wanted to be so important to them _too_.

In the way of youngest children who wanted nothing more than their parents' **complete** attention, Draven had always been the family fool. He loved it whenever his mother would take the time off her chores to interact with him, even if it was just to scold him. To catch his father's attention was a greater achievement, because Hystaspes was a calm reticent man who could have faced down a catapulted rock and not bat an eyelash if it just barely missed him by a few hairs.

Of course, since Darius was his father's favorite, his older brother only had to call the man's name and he would automatically turn his head, but Draven had to work _significantly_ harder- at one point in time he had spent one hour pulling on the man's beard before the great lumberjack even glanced at him.

Every time his parents would pull their eyes away from their chores to notice him and every time Darius would react to his little pranks and his annoying noises and clichéd puns, Draven felt very much loved. Whenever they seemed to ignore him by talking to Darius or taking Darius out to learn more about the world, Draven felt very sad and alone.

The cruel irony in all of this, and Draven would realize it only later in his life, is that his parents had loved _him_ so much so as to practically drill into Darius the importance of _being_ an older brother. Much of the elder Blood Brother's life from his fourth birthday up until their execution was filled with nothing but endless lectures on how _he_ had to be an example for the new baby, on how so-and-so was being sold off so that they would have more money to feed the two of them, on how _he_ had to protect his brother because Draven was the youngest and Noxus was not kind at all.

His parents _had_ their favorites- Hystaspes had seen much of himself in Darius and Athenais had doted on Draven because he was creative and was the last she had given birth to that had been born _alive_- but neither one of their children realized it. Darius felt that both parents had loved Draven more, and Draven had felt that Darius was the only one that his parents had thought worthy to even talk to when it came to serious matters. It was a giant misunderstanding that would eventually culminate in a massive fight, but that would be in the future.

As of now, Draven was watching the dark clouds rumbling ominously from his bed by the windowsill. A grey veil seemed to have settled over Garnet Ward- the distant Fleshing Arena's silhouette was partially obscured from his eyes. There was a heavy metallic scent in the air that reached into his mouth- this first storm of the monsoon season would be a massive one for certain.

Draven found himself pulling a heavy blanket over his head and clutched it close to his chest as the first fork of lightning ran across the black skies like one of those dancers he had seen in between fights in the Fleshing Arena. Those street performers were the other reason why he went to the Fleshing Arena. In between fights, various troupes would dash out into the bloody sands and amuse the crowd. His favorite was a troupe of stateless gypsies who would dance on top of prancing horses and juggle flaming batons. He would always be on the edge of his seat as he counted the flaming sticks, following the progression hungrily: _one, three, five, seven, twelve_-!

He wanted, more than anything, to be like _them_- to hear nothing but cheers and the words '_more, more, more_'-!

Thunder boomed in the distance, making such a heavy noise so as to fill his lungs with vibrations and shake dust from the rafters. Draven imagined each and every boom to be a massive, immeasurable crowd stomping their feet on the ground all at once, hollering a single word in monosyllabic tones that was absolutely awe-inspiring in its unanimity: _Draven, Draven, Draven_.

With a colossal, incessant roar, heavy rain fell from the skies and blanketed everyone in cold. Draven closed his eyes and rocked himself back and forth; weaving his head from side to side like a virtuoso piano player would while playing a difficult but rewarding piece. The sound of drops hitting the slate roofs he imagined to be the impatient patter of footsteps as they rushed to greet him; the gurgle of water pouring through drainpipes he interpreted to be the throaty cheers of his admirers.

When he opened his eyes, Draven did not see Garnet Ward under the grip of the worst monsoon to hit in three years. He saw a sea of nondescript faces, calling for him, screaming his name.

Like any good performer, he stood up, throwing off his blanket and giving off his best smile as he flexed nonexistent muscles and jumped out of bed. The temperature in the room had plummeted, and his breath was coming out in wisps. Stuck in his fantasy world, Draven pulled a log from a nearby pile, juggling it in the air as he had seen his idols do in the Fleshing Arena. _One, two, three_- and he threw those into the open doors of the furnace. He splashed it a bit with lamp oil and set it on fire, jumping from heel to heel all the while, and then slammed the door of the furnace shut.

Draven did a cartwheel, failing miserably because he was not at all flexible, but he was in a land filled with admirers and every single crack of thunder that reverberated through his chest and his skull he interpreted as an encouraging cheer. He pulled candles from the monsoon survival kit that Darius had so meticulously packed for him, juggling them in the air: _one, three, five_-!

And then he slipped on his blanket and fell on the floor. All five candles plummeted down and hit him on the head. Thus pulled from his fantasy world, the eleven year old made a pained noise as he rubbed ruefully at the top of his head and stared out at the window. The rain had gotten thick enough to obscure his view of the Fleshing Arena completely- monsoon season was upon them all.

Draven wondered then, if his brother was seeing the rain too.

Certainly, Darius was _seeing_ the rain. In fact, he was _feeling_ it too. The heavy freezing shower was beating an asymmetric rhythm into his skin. His breath came out in clouds and every movement made his muscles scream from exhaustion but he did not want to rest- not yet at least.

"Of course, let's _not_ work hard." Di Castellamonte croaked sarcastically over the pouring rain and distant thunder. "Let's not expend any effort, _really_. There is no point to giving your best, especially after a year and five hours of preparing for this very moment, isn't there?"

_Has it already been five hours?_ His exhausted mind asked blearily.

Their day had started out at an already hectic, almost feverish pace. When Chief di Castellamonte had informed them that the Crucible would begin today, Varinius had been silently transferred out. They had been herded like cattle into the bathroom, soaked through by instructors using buckets and then forced outside. Hounded by Strongbow and the rest of the instructors, Dominance joined all the other companies on a massive trail that wound around the grounds of Boram's Point.

They must have been quite a sight to see then- hundreds of men and a smattering of women jogging in their nightclothes, ignoring the choking dust of the road and the complaints of stomachs still empty. Somehow, the instructors had managed to acquire horses, and the screams in the back column only added to every candidate's motivation to run faster than the person next to them: evidently, those that could not run any longer fell to the earth and were trampled by iron-clad hooves.

After completing one circuit, the companies had been split up again. Dominance had been herded through a narrow trail and into a valley where a sluggish brown river was making its way into the earth. Delicate mist rose from the chasm, and it was quite a beautiful sight. There, at the very edge of the churning ravine, the instructors pushed them into pre-determined positions and let them stand for ten minutes in the welcome spray.

Chief di Castellamonte had walked in front of them after their little breather, bending the riding crop in her hands as she shouted above the noise of the waterfall behind her. "Eons ago, the first Noxian warriors fought for leadership at this place. Those who wished to be chief would find the strongest person in their clan, and then they would challenge that man or woman in single combat, without weapons and without magic, grappling until their foe was cold and dead beneath their fingers."

And then the dark clouds overhead had decided to let loose their watery burden, soaking them through again in an aching chill that seemed to reach into their very bones. Chief di Castellamonte had been unfazed as she continued over the booming thunder, her features highlighted by the lightning that raced overhead and struck a nearby tree, setting it on fire. "Warrior-children, the person to your right is your strongest foe. If you wish to see the light of the sun on the morrow, you must kill him in single combat, without the use of weapons and magic. No quarter must be given, not even to our fellow men, and if _you_ do not kill _them_ by the end of this day, _we_ will kill _you_."

Darius had stared at Hawklight then, his mouth slightly slack in shock. Hawklight was one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in the entire company, and the older man had sent his face into the sand of the Pit more than once. Fear had taken a hold of his heart then, because he honestly did not know if he could have taken Hawklight on. He would have stood frozen for a second longer, but Senior Instructor Krieg-Windsor's fist suddenly collided with his chest, and Darius had keeled over with a grunt, swallowing to hold back the bile that was running up his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Assistant Instructor Strongbow knock Hawklight off his feet.

"Fight, you maggots!" Krieg-Windsor had boomed at them as Darius straightened up just in time to dodge Hawklight's fist. "Fight or I will crush your skulls together!"

All _that_ had been five hours ago. There had been as many as fifty pairs next to the gorge, but now it had whittled down to a pitiful three. The survivors of the melee were standing at attention off to the side, unable to move on without the last three victors. The bodies of the dead candidates were still on the field, and the remaining fighters had tripped over the corpses more than once. In all actuality, there would be more bodies on the ground if the instructors had not thrown three pairs over the edge of the gorge because the candidates had given up.

Darius didn't know how many blows they had exchanged, didn't care if Hawklight seemed to always come out on top- all he knew was that he could not afford to give up, could not afford to _stop_. No matter how many times the man hit him; Darius had always gotten back up, compartmentalizing his hunger, pain and exhaustion with dogged tenacity. He could tell that the pouring rain, long run and lack of breakfast were taking its toll on the older man.

Hawklight staggered towards him like a drunken zombie, his front and sides caked with clumps of dirt. The rain had turned the earth underneath their feet into sucking mud, and everyone but the Chief Instructor herself had fallen victim to it- one of the other fighters had been flipped into the muck so many times that only the whites of his eyes and his teeth stood out from the black that covered him, and even Strongbow's water resistant poncho was flecked with it, but _she_ was absolutely clean.

Her oilskin coat was zipped up to her neck and her peaked cap resisted the rain like an umbrella as she howled insults at a candidate who was lying face-down in the mud, her mysteriously clean boot digging the man's head further into the viscous earth. The man flailed and panicked underneath her, and she kicked at his chest constantly until he managed to physically lift himself from the ground and crawl towards his chosen opponent with an enviable persistence.

For the nth time that day, the wind was blown out of his lungs as Hawklight slammed into him bodily, sending the both of them tumbling to the earth. The mud cushioned their fall somewhat, but then Hawklight was on top of him and the rain was pounding into his skull. Time seemed to slow down. Sounds seemed to be coming from far away. Blinded by flying flecks of earth, Darius punched and kicked wildly. There was a sudden pain by his side and it was with difficulty that he realized the Chief had moved on to better targets- like the son of her former lover.

"You're a big man, candidate." And he suppressed the urge to lash at her when she slammed her heel onto his calf- he had Hawklight to worry about. "Why don't you stop being _kind_ and just snap Hawlight's neck? You have it in you."

Hawklight was pawing at his throat madly, trying to choke him, trying to _end_ him. Desperately, Darius took a hold of the candidate's shirt in one hand and used the other to push himself off the earth. Despite the blows that Hawklight dealt him, Darius found himself giving a primal roar as he lifted the other man clear off the ground.

A sharp trail of pain flared along his side- the Chief was whipping him with her riding crop, goading him on. Still roaring, he threw Hawklight down on the ground and fell on top of him, closing his hands about the man's throat, feeling the frantic pulse underneath his palms. Hawklight stared up at him with the desperation of a man who knew that he was about to die, slapping feebly at his forearms and his face, kicking with his legs and making subdued noises in his throat. As the rain poured down his back, Darius pushed his weight forward and clenched his hands tightly, holding on until Hawklight's eyes rolled into his head and his struggles finally ceased.

"Go," Chief di Castellamonte's voice said to him. Darius stood up mechanically, breathing heavily and shivering as he moved off to join the rest of the victors. Time seemed to resume its normal pace. Sounds normalized in his ears. As he stood at attention with the rest, he saw the Chief place two fingers on Hawklight's neck, feeling for a pulse. Evidently, she had discovered a weak throb, because she pulled out a knife and slit his throat. He couldn't see the blood that bubbled up like spring water- the mud and the pouring rain took care of that.

Chief di Castellamonte flicked her blade and let the rain wash it clean before she slipped it back into its sheathe. As the last two exhausted fighters fell into ranks, she strode in front of them again and regarded them all with a pleased expression on her face.

"Well done, warrior-children," She said to them, as if all they had done was clean their rooms or make her something nice to eat. As if they had not just fought a person they had practically lived with for the past year, as if they had not just snuffed out a life. "Now, you may partake of your morning meal. I will expect you all to be battle ready by two o'clock this afternoon."

After a year of being conditioned to fight to the very end, to dominate others without mercy, to overcome trials without regret, Darius found that he felt nothing after the man's death, and he remembered nothing except for the feel of Hawklight's throat under his hands, his pulse quickening like a rabbit's shortly before he had died.

As they filed into the mess hall, he could see the other companies also, and when the rafters would have been echoing back their excited chatter, there was only the sound of silverware scraping against ceramic plates, of mugs being lifted to dry mouths and dull faces. He counted every missing seat, and as he received his morning meal, he realized that more than a quarter of the candidates had perished.

They returned to their longhouse like clockwork machines, halfheartedly shrugging into clothes that seemed to no longer fit. Darius could see Keiran biting his lip as Darkwill's youngest buttoned up his own uniform, a large bruise forming about his eye. Seamus was not any better- the veteran seemed to be favoring one side as he leaned down and tied his boots. Lazare de Richelieu somehow managed to remain, and he was passed out in his bunk, his uniform half-done. For Darius' part, every movement pained him. Like the rest of Dominance Company, as soon as he had finished fixing his uniform, he crawled pitifully into his bunk and tried to sleep.

When Darius came to, it was still raining heavily outside, and the sky had grown so dark that he initially thought that he had overslept for the next phase of the Crucible. As it was, he realized it was almost two o'clock from the watch that another candidate had hung on their bunk. Darius swung his legs over, grimacing as his muscles screamed at him to stop. He held his breath as he pushed himself out of his small bed, and then struggled to stand at attention as the doors burst open yet again.

"Outside, now." Krieg-Windsor's tone brooked no argument. The exhausted candidates slung on rucksacks filled with supplies, picked up their personal weapons and rushed outside, automatically forming ranks as they did so. Chief di Castellamonte was standing next to Instructor Strongbow, waiting for them. She was still so spotless and vigorous, whereas Strongbow was somewhat covered in mud and looked to be fighting back a yawn.

There was another man next to her, dressed in green robes trimmed with yellow embroidery, armor plates on his front and on his shoulders. He had a sullen look to him, as if he did not like to be outside. The rain seemed to curve around him and he remained dry where everyone else was being pelted by freezing rain- a barrier of some sort?

"Warrior-children," She greeted them all with a nod of her head- she seemed pleased that all of them had obeyed her orders to be battle ready. "Welcome to the second phase of your first day in the Crucible. This is Summoner Gareth, of no particular House."

Darius stared at him blankly, wondering what sort of trial the instructors had in store for them all this time, bracing himself for whatever challenge she would give them, all the while privately fearing whatever magic the man would bring to bear against him.

"Summoner Gareth is an expert in the creation of constructs, that is, creatures bought to life by magic that thrive off sacrifices of human blood." And Chief di Castellamonte's mouth was set in a thin, humorless smile. "We all fear what we do not know. It is human nature to do so, and there is nothing more mysterious and more perplexing than _magic_. An infantryman's worst fear is the sting of a spell, and a mage's worst fear is to see the silver of a blade. In order to strike fear into your foes, you must first overcome fear personified. Summoner Gareth's constructs will feed off your terrors, producing monsters straight from your very soul."

Darius stiffened imperceptibly, but he knew that the Chief was watching him. He was one of many in the Company who did not deal in magic, and because of his trauma he did not even want to see or _feel_ magic. He could survive five hours of nonstop hand-to-hand combat, but to be hunted by some magical creature created from his own deepest fears? He was torn then, between giving in to his phobia and his determination to survive and to succeed. If he did give in to his cowardice, it would invalidate everything his parents had done for him, would be spitting in Chief di Castellamonte's eye. If he faced the construct- he only hoped that he had the strength inside him to overcome his dread.

"You have your packs. You have your weapons. Work alone. I will give you three days." And she held up her gloved hand, showing them her three raised fingers. "Three days to hunt down your constructs before they find _you_. Find them, destroy them, and bring back their magical cores. If you do not come back, we will consider you as dead. If you come to me without a core, I will slit your throat. Let this be a lesson to you all: return successful or do not return at all."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Okay, I lied. It's not that awkward. Maybe in two chapters. _Anyway_. I thought the use of constructs was thoroughly appropriate here- prior to the formation of the League, we _are_ told that magic was wrecking havoc on Runeterra and that there really were _no_ rules.

Noxus being Noxus, I wouldn't put it past them to use magic against their own people to make them tougher- in this case, utilizing constructs to whittle down officer-candidates to those who know how to face their fears. And come on, Sion and Urgot. _Necromancy_. Making scary illusions is absolutely nothing compared to _that_.

That would certainly explain why Noxians seem to be range from pragmatic and ruthless to outright berserk and reckless- once you've had the shit scared out of you, everything else seems to pale in comparison.


	14. Lives That Gave Me Hell

**[LIVES THAT GAVE ME HELL]**

_I closed my lids, and kept them close,_

_And the balls like pulses beat;_

_For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky_

_Lay dead like a load on my weary eye,_

_And the dead were at my feet._

_The cold sweat melted from their limbs,_

_Nor rot nor reek did they:_

_The look with which they looked on me_

_Had never passed away._

_An orphan's curse would drag to hell_

_A spirit from on high;_

_But oh! more horrible than that_

_Is the curse in a dead man's eye!_

_Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,_

_And yet I could not die._

**The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part IV (Samuel Taylor Coleridge) **

* * *

**THREE DAYS LATER…**

When Nocturne was first introduced into the Fields of Justice, summoners and champions did not know how to react to him. The summoners had heard the stories, had known that Nocturne had killed many of their kind- the most infamous tale made him a nightmare personified, a thing of terror that had no purpose other than to slaughter the unwary and to torment the psyches of those who bent the very pillars of nature to their will. The champions had found the Eternal Nightmare to be both perplexing and terrifying- a caged animal that howled at them with white froth flying from its metaphorical lips. They, like their summoners, succumbed to their fears when they felt Nocturne tether into their subconscious, tainting their realities with an Unspeakable Horror.

Far off into the future, summoners would talk of Nocturne, and of the emotions that they felt from their linked champions as Nocturne tethered into their psyche. There were plenty of tales where both summoner and champion had felt the insane urge to flee in whatever direction possible- in the most humorous version, Ezreal had shifted into the Baron Pit and was 'killed' while his summoner plowed into a wall and broke his nose- but the most infamous stories were that of certain Noxian champions and their reactions to the tether.

As Nocturne burrowed into their shared consciousness, the summoners had expected pulses of terror and pain from their Noxian champions. Sion's summoners shared that they had felt nothing but giddy excitement. Urgot's summoners would shake their collective head and state that their champion had only sent feelings of amused derision. Cassiopeia's summoners reported a blazing indignation, whilst Katarina would only send feelings of cold scorn. Darius' summoners would say that the Hand of Noxus broadcasted nothing but white noise, but their shared link had made the man run anyway- some would waste their Flash while others would have him plowing straight into a tree.

Was Darius fearless then? He was not.

No one is truly _fearless_, after all, because fear is nothing but a basic response to stimuli. It is simply the ability to perceive incoming danger, and decision-making boils down to the rather basic choice of fight or flight. People who are seen as fearless are people who are able to make decisions under immense psychological pressure, who have the rather enviable ability to keep their minds and command their bodies. Like mastering a technique by repeating it over and over until ones' muscles remember it better than one's mind, to master one's fear towards something is to face it, over and over, to temper oneself against the irrationalities of the body and to maintain one's thoughts.

What was the reason behind the Noxians' bizarre responses then? Why did it seem as if they felt any emotion _other than_ fear?

In their pursuit of true strength, Noxians inevitably discovered the frustrating barrier that was fear, but they did not study it, as the Piltoverians did. They did not philosophize or meditate about it, as the Ionians did. They did not cling to the written word, as the Demacians did. With typical Noxian stubbornness, they simply threw themselves at whatever scared them until they repelled, dominated or outright destroyed it with their bare fists, physically and metaphorically- and only the Rakkor and the tribe of the Winter's Claw would truly understand _why_ it was necessary to use one's _fists_.

There is, after all, nothing more satisfying than overcoming a challenging task without outside aid.

The Magic Phase of the Crucible was and still is the Academy's answer to fear, and that phase is the primary reason _why_ the tuition fee of Boram's Point reached astronomical levels- not every school could call upon the services of a summoner, and it certainly is not a simple matter to conjure controllable horrors to torment only a select few.

Given the massive number, one could probably buy a home within Ivory Ward and fully furnish it also, but in the minds of Noxian parents', enrollment and acceptance into the infamous Academy would be the best investment that they could possibly make to improve the lives of their children. To a true Noxian, the ability to control one's fear is worth more than a new house, more than fifty new dresses or a diamond-encrusted coat.

Of course, immigrants like Conrad would snidely state that a cheaper solution exists: rather than torment candidates with monsters created from their psyches, a psychiatrist and some three weeks spent in analysis would suffice. Of course, the opinion of immigrants in Noxus is given as much weight and respect as a fly buzzing about one's face. That is to say, if the fly ever became too noisy or too insistent, the fly would be crushed under a massive book, de-winged by a curious and sadistic child _or_ de-winged _and_ _then_ crushed under a massive book.

At higher ranks, the summoners who had been given the privilege of connecting with Darius himself instead of his conjured mimic would keep their mouths shut instead of joining the rest of their fellows in swapping stories- not only because they were under oath to never speak of his past, but because they would find themselves back in a decadent barren forest inundated with freezing rain, taking the point of view of a youth who crouched inside a cave for hours on end, ignoring the dull aches of his muscles and joints and struggling against the heavy veil of exhaustion as he watched his surroundings intensely. It would be with a mortified shiver that they would remember his horrifying task, and the sickening, _twisted_ monstrosity that his deep-seated anxieties had conjured.

As far as anxieties went, Darius did not regret the loss of more than thirty other candidates in his company- clearly, they did not have the raw physical strength required. He did not feel bad about throttling Hawklight to death with his bare hands- there could only have been one victor, after all. What ate at him was his constant worry for his younger brother, the mentally exhausting and still somewhat perplexing decision he had made the night before to willingly haze another candidate so soon after his own traumatic experience, and the fact that he was being hunted by a magical nightmare come to life.

He had made the decision two days ago to simply sit and wait for his hunter to find _him_. It was not an act of sloth, nor was it an act of cowardice. The sad truth of the matter was that he did not know much about hunting anything outside of laying traps for absurdly large rats, and he felt that he would have a fighting chance if he faced his hunter at a place of his choosing.

His hunting skills would remain rather appalling even as an adult- in all actuality, it would only get worse because of his armor and his full growth. Eventually Rengar the Pridestalker would laugh at the Hand of Noxus for '_stomping through the Rift like a fool, announcing your presence to all, even the deaf and the blind_' and Leesin, for all his resentment towards Noxus, never could hold in his own laughter whenever he was within earshot.

The cave he was sitting in was not much, especially considering his own bulk. He was forced to bend over at some points and spent most of his time crouched or on his knees. He had chosen this particular cavern because it was not very long- twenty paces and he would hit the very end of it- and because the rains had not stopped falling since it had started three days ago.

At least food and water were not in short supply- he did nothing but wait so the dried rations in his pack served his purposes well enough, and because of a fissure in the ceiling he was able to cup rainwater in his hands and take his fill without much trouble. The cold was ever present, but it helped that he could maintain a fire at the back of the cave. There was no problem with relieving himself either, because it either joined the rest of the murk or floated off somewhat defiantly. No, his real problem was that he had time to _think_, and even though his father had warned him against fixating on _what could have beens, _he could not help but run his mind over possibilities in between catching minute naps.

When left alone to his own devices, Draven would be doing what he pleased. When Darius was left alone, he brooded. Eventually, someone would tell him that he agonized over his memories worse than a prepubescent girl, and he would not react angrily because he knew that the jab was well-founded. Running through his mental map, grimacing at every single mistake he saw, wondering if something could have been averted, speculating over choices he could have made, _if_ he should have made them- brooding was an annoying habit he hated to do.

Sitting at the cave mouth with his axe cradled in his lap, Darius had been thinking if he should have just decided to hunt the creature instead of penning himself up in a hole in the ground. It was the morning of the third day, and he knew that if he did not get the core he needed, he would be killed. As Darius tried not to think about how it was going to be his fault _again_, he noticed that the fire had gone out- there was no welcome glow on the walls anymore, and the air had suddenly become very cold. Gripping the axe in one hand, he turned and made the slow crawl to the back of the cave.

It was very dark- the sun was obscured by rain, and when the fire was out, only way he could tell that he had reached the end of the cave was when he reached the count of twenty and banged his nose into the back wall. He had made it to fifteen before his sleeve had caught on something underwater, and he pulled at it until he practically smacked himself in the face- the cloth had given way with a subtle tearing noise and momentum had carried his fist towards his head.

"Piece of shit," The youth who would become the Hand of Noxus rubbed at his cheek ruefully. He pushed his head down and crawled on, but he didn't even make it to twenty before his face collided with something cold. He blinked and looked up- the face of Alexander de Croix smiled back at him. The man seemed… wrong, somehow. His face was sagging, nigh greenish in places, as if his decaying skin did not fit over his skull. His eyes were pitch black and were not at all unlike marbles set into hollow sockets.

"_Heeello, littleeee savageeee_." Alexander de Croix's voice was long-drawn, seemingly made of a thousand other tiny voices speaking at the same time. As the corpse-face opened its mouth in front of him, Darius did not see the soft pinkish tissues of a healthy mouth and gums. He could see nothing but a thousand gleaming eyes and gnashing pincers as a putrid heavy scent forced its way into his nose and made him gag. The man was made of _bugs_.

"**Shit**!" Darius found himself shouting in the thing's face as he hastily backed out of the cave, his axe held in a white-knuckled grip. He _knew_ that the thing in front of him was his hunter, knew that he had to stand and fight, but the impulse to run was too overwhelming. "**SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT**!"

"_Running away will do you no good, littleeee savageeee_." Alexander seemed to melt down from the ceiling of the cave, landing on the moist earth with a wet plop. His body was not humanoid- it was a gigantic, constantly shifting mass of insects that vaguely resembled a centipede. It was not even a single kind of insect- he could see black beetles, pigment bugs, brown worms, sickly white grubs and brown termites among others wiggling inside, and as he backed out into the freezing rain, he thought he could see the faint outline of a blood-darkened skeleton before the creatures rallied against it and buried it deep.

As his last meal tumbled out of his mouth and fell into the flood about his knees, he stared flabbergasted as flies flew out of the corpse face's mouth and nose. Tiny limbs wiggled underneath the flesh mask to give Alexander de Croix's face a stomach-turning smile.

_"You areeee so afraid. I can tasteeee it in the air. I will eeeenjoy savoring your corpseeee_." The corpse-face said to him. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the overcast clouds, maybe it was because he felt sick, maybe it was because he had not slept much or because the thing in front of him were his deepest nightmare come to life- his breath seemed to come out in clouds as the very colors of the world around him seemed to dim to nothing but shades of grey.

_Shit, shit, __**shit**__. __**Move, move, move!**_ Darius screamed mentally, wanting to do _something_ but his legs would just not obey him and his shaking hands were still gripping his axe. He stood rooted in his place as the centipede crept closer, its massive bulk seemed to hide the very sky as it loomed over him and tittered madly in glee. He choked back the urge to vomit again as the dead smell grew stronger, permeating through his clothing and clawing into his eyes.

"_Wee shall rid you of your troubleesomeee lifeee. Your guilt- so palpable. Your feeeear, so delicious_." Alexander de Croix's maddened smile was grossly exaggerated thanks to the constantly pulsating bodies of the insects underneath. It was over him now, covering him from the rain but- and he realized this when he thought he saw raindrops fall past- that it was _salivating_ over him with the gaping hungry mouths billion crawling things. "_What a prizeee, a candidateee with such eexpeeerieeeencees, such meeemorieeees_. _Your failureeee will beee my reeeeeward_."

_Oh fuck__**, oh fuck, OH FUCK**__-_ The world seemed to shrink around his ears as the warmth ebbed from his blood. Darius slowly looked down at the axe in his hand. Dimly, he realized he was shaking so hard that his knees practically had locked. The knuckles and veins on his hand stood out sharply against his clammy skin.

_I'm going to die, _He thought to himself with sudden clarity. _I'm going to die and I haven't even used my axe yet._

The corpse-face moved closer, almost touching his forehead. Insects screamed in his ears as they ran a predetermined path, moving on top of each other to form a new shape. It was not a centipede now- it resembled the carving of Death he had seen in the Cathedral all those days ago- hooded, with great skeletal hands reaching out to pluck his head from his shoulders.

_I can't die, _he objected piteously_. I can't die, I can't die, I can't die._

He looked up into Alexander de Croix's decomposing face, could see each and every skittering thing creeping underneath and the greenish and sickly veins drawn like melted wax against pallid and dead flesh. It was so close now that the dead smell made his throat contract again.

**_MOVE, PIECE OF SHIT-_** Self-pity made way for bitter anger as he railed at himself. **_MOVE, MOVE, MOVE_**_-!_

"_Weeeeak, so weeeeak." _Darius could still see the multitude of eyes staring at him, glowing pale white and illuminating the sickening pallor of the corpse face. There were things on his clothes. He could feel their legs crawling over his skin, could hear their chittering in his ears. "_Goodbyeee, littleee savageee."_

_I can't die-_ The mental mantra grew to a final desperate and angry scream. He threw everything he had into **moving, **into doing _something,_ summoning up elusive courage and determination in the face of something that frightened him to his very **core**. _I can't die. I can't die. __**I WON'T DIE. I WON'T DIE**__-_

He could feel the tiny jaws on his skin before he found himself in control again. Desperately, he managed to push his arms up, hacking away at the thing in front of him madly. His initial strokes were largely ineffectual, but it had its desired effect. The corpse-face screamed- spitting bugs into his face- as it recoiled away from the axe blade.

"I won't die." Darius snarled at it as he hefted the axe in his hands and wished it wasn't raining. The thing was slipping from his cold wet hands. "I won't die here."

"_Beegging_!" The corpse-face barked at him in its thousand-insect voice as it reformed into a large roiling scorpion with absurdly large claws. "_Beegging! How __**fun**_!"

"Shut up!" He howled at it as he pushed through the water, slamming the flat of his axe into its Alexander de Croix's face like a boy would use a bat. Mortified, he watched as the man's face literally flew off and landed into the murky waters.

"_You didn't likeee that faceeee_?" The roiling mass screeched at him with a million little voices. "_Littleee savageee, would this faceee suit your neeeeeeds_?"

Like a worm peeking out of the ground, the thing in front of him regurgitated a half-eaten corpse, lifting it above the black insect mass. Most of the limbs had been picked into ribbons. Shreds of muscle clung to yellowed joints. Soft dark-brown organs spilled from gaps in the chest cavity.

What made him give a choking dry heave and a noise of anguish was that the face was still so _intact_, and it was the face of his mother- her mouth was moving but he could see the bubbles coming from her throat, knew that was where Urgot had cleaved her head from her shoulders. He gave a strangled sob as she opened her eyes and looked at _him, _blaming _him_-

"You killed me." She said in _that_ voice he had always held dear, and he could feel himself coming apart.

**_NO, NO, NO! _** He mentally screamed against his guilt. _No, that's not real, that's not real at all._

"Stop it." Darius snarled, and he lifted his axe and threw his weight into his next blow. His skin suddenly grew hot and feverish, invigorating him against the cold and the grey world that the thing had managed to call down.

His mother's head tumbled from her half-eaten shoulders, falling against his face and covering him with a trail of warmth. '_My darling boy, my light'-_ her last words echoed as her head fell down into the waters about his knees and he bit back an instinctive sob.

"_You killeeed your own motheeer_!" The insect-mass screeched at him.

"She died for me, and I buried her!" Howling in anguish like a wounded wolf, he hacked away at her decaying corpse until the rest of her was consumed in the darkness of churning insect bodies.

He stared up now at the half-chewed corpse that was his father, and Hystaspes' great hulking mass seemed to have been thrown into a meat grinder and then spat out abruptly. He could see bloody bones jutting out of places- some whole, some snapped- could see the oozing blood mixing with the rain. As before, his father's face was still hauntingly, _painfully_ perfect- as if the man was in front of him right now, staring down at him, his great bushy beard hanging off his chin like a shroud of moss.

"You disappoint me." His father's voice was still as he had remembered it.

Darius didn't know that he was screaming again, didn't feel anything as he threw himself at the beast, regardless of the danger that the millions of jaws would have posed to him. As he cut into the mutilated body of his father, he didn't see the man's arms curl about him in the mockery of an embrace, pulling him closer inside and pressing him against the hungry jaws of the carrion bugs.

A thousand tiny cuts opened along his face and his arms, and Darius closed his eyes involuntary as he seemed to burn alive in his own skin. Still, he resisted the urge to draw back in fear, to stop. He was still hacking desperately away at the gruesome mimic when the two of them fell into the churning black waters.

Suddenly, the colors of the world returned in dirt black, moss green and mud brown as sharp branches and rocks pummeled at his body. All around him, billions of little insect teeth and legs scraped against his skin, nipping into his flesh when they could before they too were swept by the torrent.

Darius tried to find his bearings, tried to push his head above the flood, but the insect thing was there, holding him under in emaciated claws that formed and reformed constantly. He tried his best to stay calm and to hold in his breath, remembering the sea phase and tried not to think about the fact that he **Could. Not. Swim**.

Panic made his heart beat fast but Darius urged himself to remain calm. He extended his axe in desperation and it caught on something, sending shocks up his right arm and possibly even wrenching it out of its socket. At the price of shredding his skin, he pulled himself up along his own axe, praying that it would not dislodge from whatever thing it had latched on to.

Gradually, Darius found that he was above the flood, creeping on top of a slippery but crevice-ridden rock. Coughing out water, his gasps for air came in too fast, and he tried to regulate his breathing as the rain washed over his fevered skin and cooled him down.

Utterly exhausted and bleeding from a multitude of wounds and what else, he lay back on the rock, tried not to aggravate his right arm and stared up at the pouring rain and the overcast skies. His throat hurt, his breath still came in short bursts, his heart wanted to just jump out of his throat, his entire body was aching horribly and bleeding and his arm was at a rather strange angle.

High pitched wails filled the air as Darius felt scrabbling tiny limbs on his leg. He looked down to see the amalgamation again, clawing up at him, scrambling and trying to reform from the pouring flood to consume him. It was with a sense of detachment that Darius realized that there was a curiously shining pearl in what he took to be its throat or its chest.

_The Core. I need that_. Darius had to mentally remind himself, because he felt worn down to his very soul and all he wanted was to simply close his eyes and sleep. He felt numb and dead as he kicked at the screeching thing, staring at it vacantly until it fell back into the water and dissolved into nothing.

The pearl was bouncing halfway down the rock face before Darius realized that he had to grab it, and when he did dive after it he only hurt himself further with his sudden abrupt action, but at least it was safe in his good hand.

He pulled himself back up the rock and stared down at the little thing in his palm, marveling at the comforting heat that emanated from the perfect sphere. He wondered how he could possibly get back to the longhouse now, if he even still could go back. It was the third day after all. He knew he was still somewhere in the grounds, but he didn't know _where_ exactly. If he was going to get the Core back to Summoner Gareth, he knew he had to get off the rock and brave the flood again.

The pearl glimmered in front of him, still radiating that disturbing welcome warmth, and it was with a familiar sense of dread that Darius realized it was _healing_ him. At any other point in time, he would have dropped it, but he was worn-out, in pain and too psychologically exhausted to even complain, so he merely lowered his head as he heard his bones snap back into place and felt every single cut disappear. As soon as it finished- and it had turned into a dull black color that seemed to _eat_ light by then- he tried to put it into his satchel.

Darius almost dropped it back into the floodwaters around him. Dimly, he looked down at himself and discovered his satchel didn't survive the flood. His clothes weren't any better- in some places they were little more than worn down rags clinging to his frame. His axe was still jammed underneath the bubbling flood. His rucksack had been left in the cave.

The relieved laughter that bubbled from his chest was tainted with misery.

When Darius finally managed to make it back to the longhouse, the rain had stopped and the ground underneath his feet had turned into viscous, sucking mud. He had backtracked to retrieve his rucksack and spare uniform, silently thanking the mountain phase for teaching him how to keep his head even through mental exhaustion.

Darius had let the Core drop into Summoner Gareth's hands, hollowly greeting Chief di Castellamonte a good evening as he did so. She had taken one look at him- drinking in the hollows underneath his eyes, his slack jaw, unruly hair, bedraggled uniform and slow movements- and had smiled as if he had just run a marathon for her.

"Tomorrow brings a new task, candidate." She had said. He had stared at her vacantly before he remembered that he should not, and then clapped his fist to his chest in salute before she had dismissed him.

Shambling into the longhouse, it occurred to him very slowly that Dominance Company's numbers had thinned yet again- there were only fifty of them now, down from some two hundred hopefuls. Lazare de Richelieu was gone, but Seamus and Keiran Darkwill were still there. The latter seemed to be like him, all stare and no movement at all, but the former was humming a rough sea shanty under his breath as he fixed his things.

"You're oddly pleased with yourself." Darius found himself saying hoarsely, watching the older man work with detached interest.

"I got a free healing spell." Seamus replied over his shoulder.

"Me too." Darius replied bemusedly.

"You too?" The veteran blinked and looked at him carefully. "You don't fucking look it."

"I don't?" The younger man echoed.

"You look like a fucking shitstain." Seamus supplied eloquently.

"Oh." Darius replied vacantly, feeling too tired to even think of a good enough insult to fire back at him.

"Can't fucking deal with the strain huh?" The veteran chuckled at him knowingly. "What a piss-poor schmuck."

Darius lowered his rucksack next to his bunk, leaning against the post as he looked at Seamus. "What strain?" He asked dumbly.

"There's nothing wrong with you." Seamus pointed out. "You fucking retarded asshole."

"_Nothing_?" Darius blinked in surprise.

"You just got healed, so you shouldn't even _be_ tired." The veteran snorted as he rolled his eyes at an obvious fact only he could comprehend. "What a retard. I'm surrounded by fucking idiots."

It just occurred to him then that the veteran was right, and it was with shame that he remembered feeling like this exactly when he woke up in the infirmary after Alexander de Croix had broken his bones repeatedly. Conrad had said then that he _was_ fine, there really was _nothing_ to treat- but he had sulked like a child and had ignored the man entirely. His mind was still dealing with the events of the day, but he _felt_ fine- so why wasn't he _fine_?

"I shouldn't." Darius repeated stupidly as he realized that his mind and his body were not on the same page, and the moment the younger man said it the veteran gave a great bark of laughter as he walked off- evidently he didn't want to waste his time with _him_.

What most people on Runeterra do not realize is that healing is not an end-all solution to one's problems. Certainly, one can heal grievous physical injuries but unless one's mind is fully _prepared_, there is a tendency for the brain to be disconnected from the body. Healing spells close wounds, soothe tired muscles and bring back energy in one's step, but the human mind is a fickle thing, and it will still believe that it is still tired and utterly worn down even if the body is ready to run through another gauntlet of pain. And what plagues the mind eventually plagues the body. Even if there really is nothing wrong with the latter, the former would make it difficult to do anything- _mind over matter_, as the saying went.

Those who know how to deal with the mind-body discrepancy are able to heal or be healed without much trouble. Master Yi, the Wuju Blademaster and Leesin, the Blind Monk, would excel at this- thanks in part due to their meditative techniques, they would be able to have their mind _recognize_ that their bodies were well and they would be able to fight for days on end, never wavering, never giving in to the plague of creeping mental exhaustion.

Darius sank into his bunk, massaging his temples as he tried to think. He was _fine_. He was not tired at all. He had gone through this before, and had given in to his weak mind. He tried now to listen to his body instead, to feed off the energy that he should have known he had.

Relief did not come quickly- it would take some years before he could fully shrug off the mental strain that would come with consecutive healing spells- but the small glimmer of strength that he had managed to wean from himself made him feel _better_.

Despite having faced an unspeakable horror that day, when he slept in his bunk that night, he did not dream.

* * *

**Author's Note:** It's always eaten away at me how magic and technology could possibly co-exist in Runeterra. I mean, okay, let's run it down off the top of my head: we've got gas-based Hextech/techmaturgy, which essentially is technology powered by ecological magic from Piltover/Zaun, and then we've got the whole crystal tech/magic line from Jayce and Skarner's lore. So you either haveeee no big surprise, the power of nature (I'm looking at you, Chevron) or the power of truly, truly outrageous gems (Final Fantasy CRYSTAL ENERGY HORY GOD).

How the hell does anything work? Is it anything like AC/DC? 'Oh no you can't use that blender, it's crystal powered. Go find your natural gas blender'?

What also makes me wring my hands in frustration is that on the Fields of Justice, you've got people with techmaturgical devices running around like Caitlyn, and then you've got the immortal/? beings like Kassadin and Aatrox with their own magical/? weapons and then you've got dudes like Darius who run around with plain weapons.

If the entirety of Runeterra was so hell-bent on stopping magic from destroying their surroundings, is Riot trying to imply that Darius/Garen/Draven/Xin Zhao/other regular joes with non-magical weapons actually are ecologically conscious? Visions of Darius in a Sea Shepard shirt aside- I have absolutely no idea why everyone won't just use the best weapons for their wars.

Look at how the United States progressed. What is the US known for now? Bombing the shit out of things from far away. Everything they have, from forward operators to satellite imagery, is geared towards that. Sure, you've still got tanks and dudes on the ground but really why would you even bother coming in close when you can just bomb the fuck out of it?

In that same vein, why in hell would anyone go near Garen when they could just bomb him from far away? That being said, GANGPLANK YOU ARE THE MOST SENSIBLE PERSON IN ALL THE FIELDS OF JUSTICE. Don't mind me, I'm hungry and I'm rambling.

Where was I? Right. So, assuming that we have magic and technology peacefully co-existing in Runeterra without tearing holes in my sanity, what about medicine? We know that healing spells are absolutely the shit, but we also know from Swain's lore that traditional medicine still exists because they reset his leg and gave him a crutch because he told them he could take a permanently broken leg like a man. SO- why not just throw away traditional medicine and just go around healing people like Jesus?

I tried to elaborate a bit more on that and hopefully it made more sense than say, Annie-not-aging-despite-having-been-there-since-th e-inception-of-the-League (AND I WILL EXPLAIN THAT, Riot hire me). If you're too lazy to scroll up/remember, tl;dr: healing helps your body, not your mind. Master Yi is stupid broken.


	15. Battle Born

**[BATTLE BORN]**

_I will not be clapped in a hood,_

_Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist,_

_Now I have learnt to be proud_

_Hovering over the wood_

_In the broken mist_

_Or tumbling cloud_

**The Hawk (William Butler Yeats)**

* * *

**TWO DAYS LATER…**

"**Fuck** this." One of the candidates said the words that had been lurking in their heads all afternoon.

Darius didn't exactly disagree with him. Water was pooling in the trench thanks to the rain, clumps of dirt and vegetation floating about as fine particles permeated through his wet clothing and made him want to drop his weapon and scratch his nether regions. Sharp rocks were now being revealed as the rain and the candidates' frustrated movements swept away layers of dirt.

There were five of them in the muddy trench- Chauster, Trucco, Rian, Hayes and himself. The other candidates of his platoon were somewhere farther away, to carry out another part of his convoluted plan.

It was a rather strange plan- but then again they did not have much of a choice given their circumstances. It seemed like a thousand years had passed since they had formed ranks in front of Chief di Castellamonte for the final phase of the Crucible.

"Dominance Company, there are only forty-four of you left, from one hundred ninety." Chief di Castellamonte had given them a grim smile. "I feel that is a number that could still be whittled down. One trial remains for you to complete the Crucible- there are five objectives on the grounds, and you must capture at least one of them and hold it at all costs."

"Who would be our opponents, Chief Instructor?" Darius had asked then.

"Why, each other." She had replied with a cruel turn of her lip. "The entire training flag will also be participating, and their goal also is to take those five objectives. At the end of two days, whichever platoons are holding onto the objectives have the right to live. The rest will be culled."

She had divided them into two platoons composed of some twenty-two men and women, and then explained what the objectives were: the instructors had moved through the grounds a week before, planting a large Noxian standard on top of a rock cairn slathered with white paint. Two were in the middle of flat land, with no natural defenses about; the other three had been planted in the middle of a bog, perched precariously on a ridge and placed beneath a sheer cliff respectively.

"This is your final task, one you must complete to be worthy of further education. Do not disappoint me." The Chief had stared at them all judgmentally, and Darius felt her gaze burn into him. He cast his glance down onto the gloved hand that was holding onto a new, standard-issue axe- he had never found his old one and he did not regret losing it at all because it had just been an axe. "If you fail, I will take great pleasure in terminating you myself."

Chief di Castellamonte had made Harkin the leader for his platoon. The man was ape-like, with long arms, a thickset face and large hands. Privately, Darius had felt that it was a rather stupid decision for her to make because, even though Harkin was tough, he was an absolute buffoon. But he had held his tongue then- he did not want to disrespect her by countermanding her decision.

That had been one day ago. Since then, Harkin had proven himself to be about as stupid as Darius had imagined him to be. The idiot had insisted on going after one of the flatland objectives, telling them that it was easier to obtain. Darius had stopped him the first time, pointing out that there was absolutely nothing there to help them, that there was no tactical advantage or disadvantage present. Harkin had stared at him stupidly, his ape-like face contorting.

"But it's easier," Harkin had told him. And Darius had stayed his hand then purely because a platoon had suddenly come rushing out of the heavy murk, trying to kill them before they even went near a single objective. They had fought off the assaulting platoon easily- Harkin did have his merits- and had looted the bodies for supplies.

Darius had tried arguing with him again, but the bigger man had shrugged him off. He had kept his mouth shut after that, because he did not want to delay his platoon any longer. After trudging through rain and rapidly disintegrating terrain, Harkin announced that they were going to assault the bog objective instead.

"What the fuck," Darius had practically railed at him then. "Are you doing? You can't go to the bog objective- not in the motherfucking dark. We haven't even conducted a foot patrol. What if there's already a platoon there?"

"Well, the bog objective is close, isn't it?" Harkin had asked him. Darius had shown him the map only ten minutes ago. "So we should go there."

"At night?" He had shouted before someone from his own platoon hit him in the back and told him to shut up.

"Why are you being such a bitch, Darius?" Taller and burlier Valdas, of the House of Daubney, told him. "I want to get an objective too, so we should probably hurry."

"You insane **fuck**," Darius had spat back. "There's a difference between being aggressive and being reckless, and there is no point in running through a marsh at night to get to an objective that you haven't even scouted yet!"

He would have throttled them both to death, but at that point the older and more veteran Seamus decided to interject- he had been placed into Darius' platoon, and he had remained silent thus far.

"Let him make the mistake," Seamus had suggested wryly.

"At the cost of our lives?" Darius had whirled on him. "We're going to fucking fail if that asshole gets what he wants."

Seamus had taken his rage and had laughed at him. "You fuckhead, I've seen all kinds of dogshit in the infantry. You get officers like that all the time. Let him do his gamble- if it pays off, we've got the objective. If it doesn't, kill him, then take command. It's that fucking simple. Nobody's going to fucking stop you when they're all tired and shit."

And so they had carried out Harkin's disastrous plan, and true to Darius' suspicions, the objective had already been taken. They were already exhausted from marching through the knee-deep sludge. The moment they reached the objective, they thought they were the first to come- no one was around.

"You see," Harkin had said. "We've got this."

And then they were surrounded- the platoon that had taken it earlier had decided to wait in the murk, deceptively leaving the Noxian standard alone. Now they fell on Darius' platoon with brutal fervor, cutting down Valdas and another two candidates before Harkin managed to sound the retreat. They had run through the bog, heckled by arrows and spells. They lost one more with that retreat, and the moment they felt that they were well and away from the other platoon, Darius had walked straight up to Harkin and separated his head from his body.

As Seamus had said, the rest of his platoon had been too exhausted and too hurt to complain about the abrupt change in leadership. The first thing Darius had done was to relocate them all to a more defensible position, a thicket on a hill, with brambles to the north and a solid cliff face in the east. They had taken stock of their situation then.

All the platoons had been issued the same supplies: one waterproof foldable map of the grounds, to be kept inside an oilskin bag; fifteen packs of biscuits and meat jerky, which essentially was just one day's worth of rations for five people; a pack of medical supplies, for three minor scrapes or one major injury; one survival machete; six explosive runestones, for whatever reason; twenty-two water canteens, with three packets of water purifying agent to prevent dysentery; two field-issue binoculars, with vision of up to 350 feet at 1000 yards; twenty-two spare uniforms and waterproof ponchos; three packs of waterproof matches, each containing twenty sticks; three pieces of rope cord, ten feet long; two canisters of lamp oil; two black square lanterns, armed with a sliding metal visor in order to send coded messages with; five fishing hooks, for whatever reason; one waterproof pocket watch, to keep track of time with; one hundred pieces of ammunition, for the candidates who used ranged weapons; one shovel, to dig trenches with; and two communication shards, to be shared within the platoon.

What were communication shards? An exceedingly important innovation, communication shards essentially were the Noxian answer to Piltoverian radio technology. The shards were just that- smooth pieces of black crystal laden with heavy blue runes. The things were made in pairs and enchanted to communicate with others in a network.

The advantage behind using communication shards was that it was not at all easy to eavesdrop on Noxian communications whereas Piltoverian radios were easily infiltrated by Zaunite tech. Noxian telepathic crystals allowed for a greater and more secure connection, and communication happened in real-time. Of course, the only drawback was that once one held onto a Noxian communication shard, if one knew how to utilize it, it was a window into the entire Noxian battlefield network. And if one had any magic-neutralizing artifacts, it would be an easy matter to cut off communications for entire regiments. Needless to say, the shards were destroyed if capture was imminent.

On paper, it was fairly easy to use: Noxian mages had no trouble at all, and even the most magically inept person could tap into the network because the shards had been made with them in mind- one only had to maintain focus while accessing the shard. In practice, however, holding focus was immensely difficult to do, especially while spells and other projectiles were flying over one's head. That was that was why there was more than one person in every Noxian platoon capable of operating the shards. Darius had utilized the crystals easy enough in their classroom lessons, but he had yet to use the shards in the field.

Harkin had kept them all on the move, even pushing them to eat while on the march. Their food supplies were down to only three packs of biscuits and jerky now. Their medical supplies had already been run through thanks to the failed assault. Some candidates had gotten off easily with only minor scrapes, but there was one man with a broken leg that had to be put down- none of them knew healing magic, and it was a nigh unanimous opinion among them that they could not afford to haul him about on a litter or give him a crutch.

There had been only seventeen of them left, and all tired and soaked through. Darius had opened the map, had stared at it before calling Seamus to his side to consider their options. Despite his rough manner, the veteran had proven himself on more than one occasion, and no one else was moving to take command.

"The closest objective would be the bog objective," Darius had stated as rain peppered the map's waterproof covering. "But we're down to seventeen heads and if the fighting hasn't gotten worse for the other companies, we can't possibly compete with them- assuming that their numbers are the same as ours when we first began."

They thought of a plan then- it was a risky one considering the fact that they only had a limited number of hours left. Darius had not wanted to wait that long, because it was a risk that he did not approve of at all, but Seamus had managed to convince him otherwise.

"If it fails," The veteran had told him. "Then at least you didn't fuck up like Harkin. You've got brain and guts, kid. That's saying a lot."

The moment they had completely formulated the plan, Darius had them moving through the sinking wood to carry it out, and making them go in pairs so that they could pull each other out if the wet earth had decided to eat them. There had been a particularly risky portion of the plan when they skirted close to one of the objectives, but thankfully they had not been discovered. Once preparations had been complete, he had settled them into what had been a relatively dry and stable place, to wait out the rain and to rest until the next phase. He had decided to share a foxhole with Seamus for the night, because he had wanted to go over the specifics of the plan again and again until the two of them were absolutely certain they could have done the troop movements in their sleep.

It wasn't until midnight rolled around- it was hard to keep track of time with the rain obscuring the clouds but the watch that they had been supplied with had survived thus far- that another platoon had come literally marching into the platoon's bivouac.

Darius had been nodding off because the events of the day had exhausted him, and so when he clashed with the other platoon he had fought like some dazed, shambolic thing until the adrenaline returned to his veins and gave him a sort of hyper clarity- his entire frame was tingling, his heart was racing, and it almost felt that he could see every single thing about him, right down to the water droplets on the black trees' trunks. They did not lose anyone in the assault, which was a blessing in itself, and the supplies that the other platoon carried were immensely welcome.

"Gods above," Darius breathed out. His teeth flashed white against the mud and grime on his face as he grimaced and massaged his temples with his muddied gloved hand. "That was… something."

"Yeah," Seamus grunted out as he sank into their shared foxhole. Both of them were shaking- from the cold, from the stress, from the exhaustion.

Darius' heart was pounding in his ears still, even as he cleared the arrows that the other platoon had misfired, gathering the bolts that had not snapped into a tidy pile. "I hope the plan works." He told the older man.

"It will. Can't wait." The veteran grumbled out as he set his crossbow next to him. "Are you going back to sleep?"

"I have to decide the duty rotation first." Darius replied- he was halfway out of the hole.

"I'll take first watch. I need to do a combat jack anyway." Seamus returned as he too exited the foxhole.

The fourteen year old blinked in curiosity, tilting his head at the veteran in front of him.

"A _what_?" Darius asked him.

"A combat jack," Seamus repeated, as if the words would suddenly just explain themselves to the younger man.

"What's that?" Darius said slowly.

The veteran stared at him as if he had been some Void creature come to consume him. "Am I _really_," The veteran said dryly. "Going to fucking talk to you about combat jacks?"

Unfortunately for Seamus, Darius was too curious for his own good. "… _Yes_?"

"… If you leave me alone at my post for a very, very long time," Seamus said snappishly as he relented to the teenager's persistent questioning. "I'll answer your questions. Deal?"

"Alright." Darius replied uncertainly. "What's a combat jack?"

"A combat jack," Seamus spoke very quickly. "Is when you beat off while you're in the field. You know how tingly you got after a fight like that?"

Darius looked down at his shaking hands, felt the adrenalin rushing through his veins and filling him with a sort of raw joy and then looked back at the veteran. "Yeah." He replied.

"Okay, it's not hard to beat off after. With all those tingles in you, you'd stay up for the rest of the night. It's really handy when you're trying to stay awake for watch."

"What's beat off?" The question was an innocent one, and it almost made the veteran's eyes pop out of his skull as he gaped at him openly.

"What the fuck," Seamus said incredulously. "You don't fucking know what that is?"

Feeling suddenly ashamed for not having done something that a battle-hardened veteran perceived as important, Darius felt himself shirk back. "No," He said rather awkwardly. "No, I don't."

"What a bitch." The man snorted. "Look, we've got canteens, right?"

"Right,"

"And we have that little flavored powder to put in it so that it doesn't taste like asshole and give you the shits."

Darius stared at him blankly. "Yes…?"

"The instructions say to pour it in the canteen and shake liberally."

"And…?"

"And that's it; just shake your thing like you shake your canteen."

Darius stared at him blankly. "… From side to side…?"

"No, up and down, you fucking stupid bitch." The veteran snarled at him impatiently.

Darius watched him fidget impatiently. "But what do you think about while you're… shaking?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Titties, dicks, whatever gets you up. Now go decide the duty roster for the rest of the platoon and the leave me the fuck alone to enjoy my jack. I'll find you later when I'm done."

Darius left him to go to his post then, trying to ignore the faint fleshy noise that was sounding off from beyond the tree line as he left- it vaguely reminded him of the sound his hands would make whenever he would smack pigs on their backs to get them moving when he still worked as a butcher's apprentice.

He did his rounds through the bivouac, holding one of the provided lanterns in front of him to light his way. Most of the candidates had figured out their own rotations in their own shelters, so he mostly wandered from point to point, letting the rain soak him through and wash the dirt out of his clothing and his shoes before he settled down to take a quick nap against a tree.

He awoke some two hours later, according to his timepiece. As far as napping in the field went, the rest was enough. Feeling slightly more energetic than before, he chewed on a piece of jerky and drank some water from his canteen before he decided to go relieve Seamus.

As he approached Seamus' position again, he heard a long groan. For some strange reason, he felt extremely uncomfortable, and so he stopped in his tracks and listened to the sounds that came from the trench with inexplicable curiosity. The groans rose to muffled words and then fell into a rather deep and contented sigh a full three minutes later. For Darius it could have been an eternity.

"Seamus?" He ventured finally, when he was quite certain that the man was done with whatever he was doing.

"What?" Came the irritable growl.

"… Are you alright? Do you want to take a break now?" He asked cautiously, uncertain as to what he'd find.

"... Alright."

He shifted carefully through the brush; coming across Seamus perched on top of a pile of earth. The man looked to be washing his hands in the rain, a white substance crawling off his fingers and dropping into the dirt by his feet.

"I was enjoying my jack." Seamus said to him with a lopsided smirk.

"Is it really," Darius said slowly, feeling like he had just seen something that should have made him feel disgusted at some point. "That important?"

"Obviously, you have no have no fucking idea." Seamus pointed out with now clean fingers as he offered Darius a pair of binoculars. The younger man took it gingerly. "How good a combat jack is."

They swapped posts- Seamus crawled into the foxhole to take a nap. Darius would have settled where Seamus had been- it was a great place to keep watch because it commanded a better view of the rest of the platoon's position, but he felt oddly sickened at the thought. He settled instead on a nearby tree stump, the binoculars slung about his neck and his axe cradled on top of his knees.

Yet again, he found himself listening to the pouring rain, staring up at the dark skies overhead and marveling at the little glimpses he had of the full moon and bright stars. It was all very beautiful, in a raw and primitive way, but it was also rather quiet and the tree stump was flat and not at all sharp.

He was very comfortable then, and even though he had just come from resting his eyes, he still felt somewhat sleepy. It would be so easy to sleep, to drift back into nothingness, but he did not want to fail in his duties and he certainly did not want to be caught by the instructors.

So his thoughts eventually turned to Seamus, and the man's fixation on a 'good' combat jack. Supposedly, doing so would make him less sleepy, and he had heard the man extolling its virtues to the other candidates before they had all been scattered like dust on the wind.

He stared down at his pants again, and then thought of how to approach the idea. He pushed his axe off his knees, holding onto it with one hand. He rubbed his dirty hands on his wet shirt, trying to get the leather clean. Of course, it didn't help much, and his gloved hands were still rather filthy. After some time spent in thought, he yanked his gloves off and then slowly and somewhat guiltily slipped his hand into his trousers, wrapping his hand around himself and then stopped.

_Now what?_ He found himself thinking.

It was a very awkward scene, if anyone cared to look at him at that point- Darius had one hand inside his pants and the other was holding onto his axe. He had a sort of confused and thoughtful expression on his face, because he wasn't quite sure if combat jacks were supposed to be this static or this boring really.

_I might be forgetting something._ He told himself, because waiting and holding himself certainly was getting rather silly. He remembered what Seamus had said, and then experimentally flicked his wrist, up and down.

_… Well,_ He thought as he carried on. _It feels very strange._

The feeling- it was a tingle that spread all the way from his groin to his legs and then back again- was not a bad one. It was not _painful_ per se, because he knew what pain was like and this was not it. It was not _disgusting_ either, because he knew what disgusting was, had felt it and smelled it when he handled pigment bugs and hacked pieces of pork. It felt like he had fallen asleep on a limb and then woke up after a long while, so there were little pins everywhere that teased him incessantly and made him sit up a bit straighter.

He felt very warm, but it was not the pleasant warmth that made one drift off into sleep. It was more on a radiant heat that washed over him and made him more aware somehow, more aware of the tingling, more aware of his limbs and his skin. He focused on his movements, trying to build a sort of constant rhythm, and then bit at his lip when he felt a pressure building deep inside of him.

He tried to move faster at one point, but as a familiar ache settled on his right arm, he found himself slowing down again after a while. He didn't want to waste any more energy than he felt he should have, and so he continued- up and down, up and down, every single motion accentuated with prickling sensations that filled his mind and his nerves.

It didn't take long for the pressure to reach its limit, and when it did he felt a sudden urge to simply let go. The warmth came from all the way below, rushing up and spilling onto his hand as he gave a heavy groan and leaned back, feeling utterly content. The fluid was disturbingly slippery and hot as it welled over his knuckles and onto his palm- soaking into his trousers but it hardly made a difference considering he had forded a river earlier.

He didn't know what possessed him to pull his hand out and flick it off, but he did. It was a faint milky white, and he saw some of it splatter onto Seamus' pack- the man must've left it there. His nose prickled as he wiped at the sweat beading on his brow with the back of a sleeve- essentially he was smelling himself and he knew sorely needed a bath after running through brush and marsh.

He wiped his hand self-consciously on his pants, feeling a bit sheepish for some strange reason he couldn't quite fathom, and found that he couldn't bear to even look at his hand afterwards because it felt rather slick and even after he had poured some of his canteen water onto his palm he couldn't quite get the feeling off his skin. He tried to ignore it for the rest of the night as the tingling feeling persisted on and on and kept him awake- as Seamus said it would.

The hypersensitivity and energy he enjoyed, but the fluid that welled up if he gave into the pressure- not so much- as he learned later on when his watch ended a good three hours later. Seamus had taken one look at his bag and then had thrown it into Darius' face.

"Clean that up, you piece of shit." The veteran snarled at him. "What a rude motherfucker- I didn't gush all over _your_ things."

Darius didn't know what to say- he had actually stared at the veteran for a long while before he mutely offered his own pack to replace the one he had apparently marred forever. That morning, Darius had evaluated the supplies again, and after some consideration, he sent them all to find insects to eat. His father had taught him most of what he knew, and even though the various creatures the entire platoon had gathered tasted largely like nuts and dirt put into one package, it was enough to complement their meager supplies and fill their stomachs for the morning march.

They had gotten on the move then: Darius' men went to their pre-planned positions near a bend in the river that held an ancient tree, while Seamus took the remaining candidates with him to their staging area near the cliff objective.

Seamus had been glaring at him as he accepted a communication shard from his gloved hand.

"Did you fucking wash?" He had asked him suspiciously.

"… I did." Darius had replied, feeling all the more silly that he had been apparently so crass so as to flick whatever that had been at the veteran's pack.

"Fucking disgusting." Seamus had grumbled again.

All that had been in the morning. It was well into the afternoon now, and all the tension and anxiety of being in command was taking its toll on him. He felt worn down, his shoulders were stiff and there was a pressure on his forehead that he didn't know how to get rid of- but everything about the plan was dependent on his decision-making skills. He couldn't afford to sleep, and he certainly didn't want to try having a combat jack to stay awake- not when he was sharing a trench with four other men.

"It's the second day." The candidate continued on as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. "And we haven't even captured an objective yet."

"We tried, though." Another spoke up.

"We didn't succeed." Darius pointed out irritably. "Because Harkin thought it was better to go through the marsh."

"Well, he's dead now." Chauncer snapped irritably. "You killed him, remember?"

"Shut up." Despite being younger than the other man, Darius didn't hesitate as he reached over and punched the other candidate in the face. "I did what had to be done. Harkin's assault over the bog was a fucking stupid idea."

The man landed in a pool of dirty water as one of the other candidates cocked his head back to see what was happening.

"What kind of improvement are you, anyway?" Rian asked him. "You've had us cowering in this trench for the past three hours now, and before that, we were on a hill doing nothing. This is fucked up."

"We are not _cowering_." Darius retorted as he pushed himself up and out of the mire the trench was rapidly becoming. "We're _waiting_."

"For what?"

"I don't have to fucking explain myself to you again," The adolescent who would become the Hand of Noxus growled. "I told you before that this pass is the only **safe** way to get to the river- unless you want to be an utter moron and storm the bog like Harkin did yesterday. Where did the Chief say that they'd be dropping food supplies on the second day?"

"… The old tree by the river." Chauster grumbled under his breath as he massaged his face.

"Right, and since we were only given supplies enough for one day, where will everyone be today?" Darius asked him.

"Going to the river." Trucco stated.

Chauster sat up- Darius stared at him, trying to think of what was missing. It took him only a few seconds to realize that the man's tourniquet had gone flying. Since they had to put down one of the other candidates for having a broken leg, Darius had them all making tourniquets out of the cord.

He pulled the loop of cord from the muck now and threw it at Chauster. "Don't forget your tourniquet."

Chauster caught it with a muffled curse.

"So all we have to do," Darius turned his attentions back to lecturing the rest of the men in a forced patient tone. "Is to wait for the supply drop at the river and then we'll take the cliff objective to the south of us. There'll only be a few of them left. Most of them will be hungry and glad for supplies."

"We're not well off ourselves." Trucco pointed out. "We lost Cyrano and Adalwin yesterday, and in case you've forgotten, they were the ones carrying our medical supplies."

"That was Harkin's mistake, and I made him pay for it," Darius grimaced. "We won't be able to patch ourselves up, but at least we're not hungry."

"Who knew bugs were so _delicious_?" Chauster stated dryly. He was still sore about being hit. "I _love_ eating crickets, cicadas, louses and grubs."

"At least you're not **fucking** hungry, so sit down and shut up." Darius snarled at him. He was about to rail at the other man more when a blue flare rose into the grey skies, lighting them all up in a cerulean glow. He pulled the binoculars from his neck, pressing them to his tired eyes as he looked at the tree by the river bend. It took a brief second for him to realize that the Chief- and he knew it was her because her platinum hair was so distinctive- lowered a box at the foot of the tree. She vanished when he blinked his eyes.

Darius pulled the communication shard from his pocket and held it to his ear, trying to keep his focus as he had been taught as he singled out the strand that linked him with Seamus' team.

"Package dropped." Darius told him in a matter-of-fact tone. "Chief Instructor di Castellamonte deposited the cache personally before she disappeared."

Seamus sent back a grumble of assent.

Darius felt his heart race in anticipation for the coming chase. "Get your people moving. The cliff objective only has one entrance and exit, so wait at the staging area. They'll be crawling out of their hiding places soon. Let the bulk of the force pass before you act. Keep your heads down."

"Mhm. And you? Ready to rabbit like a cowardly Demacian girl?"

Darius' mouth quirked in a sardonic grin. "I'll see you on the other side."

"You know-" Seamus said, as Darius almost broke the link between them. "You do realize I can just take the objective with just my crew?"

"I do." Darius told him. He had thought about that- it was only too easy to leave him to die, considering their plan. "But you're forgetting something, Seamus."

"What?" The man asked him with a snort.

"I'm not going to die," He stated with as much confidence as he could muster. "And I _will_ kill you if you turn against me."

"We'll see." The veteran retorted. "You might want to move."

"Come on." Darius barked at the other five candidates in the hole. "Let's move."

"I hope you're fucking right." Chauncer grumbled under his breath.

They made it to the old tree quickly- Darius had scouted the path early on and the trail was still somewhat more stable than the rest of the land around them. There was only one crate- as he had suspected- and it was not that big at all, perhaps only as long as his arm and as tall as his boot. He picked it up easily- it was disturbingly light-, covering it with his own poncho as he cradled it underneath his arm. The rain outlined the ghostly shapes of several candidates- they all looked to be worse for wear, with torn clothes and gaunt, hollow faces.

"**HEY!**" Trucco howled, cupping one hand about his mouth to amplify his already considerably loud voice. His other hand carried a segment of hollow log, also covered with his waterproof poncho. "You assholes hungry? Too bad!"

The starving candidates took a few seconds to realize that the cache they valued was in the hands of another squad. With howling, demonic faces they raced at them all.

"Run," Darius barked at them all as he pushed through mud and water, fording the river with the crate under his arm. Misfired projectiles raced past. Something exploded behind his head. "Run. You all know the way. Don't fucking make a mistake!"

As the candidates practically poured out of the surrounding tree line like rats, Darius and his fellow candidates fled, following pre-determined trails in the muddy terrain marked out with strips of cord and scraps of uniform cloth. Adrenaline rushed through his system, soaking through tired muscle like the rain and giving him the strength to push past mud branches.

Darius had figured that the candidates would all be too hungry to realize that the instructors would only leave one crate, and so he had played on that uncertainty by making all of his candidates carry something light underneath one arm, covered by their ponchos to confuse the enemy. They ran now in separate directions, ducking and weaving to avoid projectiles, running for their very lives.

Why _had_ he chosen to be the rabbit for this endeavor? It was not an act of sacrifice, no. He did not think the candidates in his platoon deserved to survive the Crucible, except maybe for Seamus himself. It was not because he thought Chief di Castellamonte would take pity on him if he ever failed the Crucible- her judgment was nothing but cold and rational. It was not because he wanted to know the feeling of being hounded by other candidates- he had already experienced that before in Adamant Company. No. His reason was pure and simple.

He had chosen to be the rabbit because he did not want to be afraid when he was older. Fear was something that he did not like, and he felt that this was only way he could overcome the terror he still felt sometimes at night.

And so he kept his head down, running as fast as his legs could carry him, on relatively more stable paths through the muck. Every now and then he reached out into a hollow of a tree or at a seemingly benign piece of vegetation hanging from a branch. He would claw at it, scratching away with his gloved hand until he found the wet length of cord and pulled with all of his might.

Explosions sounded behind him as screams of pain filled the air- two of six explosive runestones spent. He turned on his heel and ran again, pulling on hidden trap triggers and ducking from arrows, spells and gods knew what else. One of the arrows managed to score a lucky hit, burying the entire head into his shoulder. He gave a muffled grunt, biting into his lip accidentally as he tried to block out the pain and the burning feeling in his chest.

Four explosions now, four stones spent. A candidate came at him screaming- he must have come late because Darius was now too far from the original drop off point. The young man struck at him with his sword, and grazed the boy who would become the Hand of Noxus on the leg.

Darius pulled out the survival machete- his axe was presently strapped to his back and he had only intended to cripple the other candidate. However, he was not at all used to the machete anymore, and when he struck the blade buried itself deep into the other man's torso, and he was screaming as he fell back into the earth.

"You can keep it." Darius told him as he ran on.

Another explosion sounded in the distance- five of six. There would only be one final explosion left, and he was the only one who knew how to trigger it. There was a reason why he had chosen to take the cliff objective. Not only was it the most defensive position, but because there was only one way into it- and that singular fact made the long run worthwhile. As he could see his vision blacking around the edges, he slowed his pace and tried to breathe. He was no longer being chased- the sounds of fighting were too distant for him to consider as a threat.

Still, he did not stop moving. He walked as he stared down at the black patch that was spreading on his pants. He was bleeding, but he didn't think it was too serious. He took the improvised tourniquet from around his neck and then wrapped his leg good and tight before he continued on.

The entrance to the cliff objective was through a gorge that usually was dusty and arid during the dry season. Now it was a veritable river. In order to reach the Noxian standard planted within, the officer candidates had to negotiate a narrow trail of slippery rock that was only wide enough for one person. Needless to say, it was quite easy to see invaders coming, lined up along the path as they were to escape the raging floodwaters.

There were only two of them at the rendezvous point. Trucco, Chauster and the rest of his team was gone. Rian was nursing a wound on his arm, and he gave Darius a fevered nod as he cradled the tourniquet laden limb. His poncho-wrapped item was nowhere to be seen.

"Are we going to wait for Trucco?" Rian asked him impatiently. "And Chauster?"

"No." Darius stated simply as he reached over and pulled a rock away from the gorge face. A small stone glinted at him from the dry darkness- the final explosive runestone. "Can you make the crossing?" He asked the other candidate.

"Yeah." Rian rasped. "Yeah, I can make it."

He tapped the man on the shoulder, grimacing as the arrow that was still buried in his back twitched and scraped against his bones and his muscles. "Alright," The young man said. "Go on. I have to be behind you."

Rian did not need further encouragement. The two of them attempted the trail, and Rian almost slipped and fell into the raging river nearby. They were both peppered with the brown spray, but after having run so far and through the rain it did not matter at all.

It seemed to take forever- they moved so slow because they were injured and they were negotiating a rather difficult path- but they made it to the other side. The Noxian standard was visible in the distance- tall, red, and defiantly vibrant against the grey rain. He could see people fighting underneath it, spilling blood onto already darkened soil. He turned and threw the explosive runestone at the pass, moving his head away and shielding his eyes as the pass disintegrated, whole chunks of the gorge falling into the roaring river.

There was no way out of the objective now. Having sealed the passage, Darius reached painfully over his shoulder, feeling around the buried arrow and managing, albeit painfully, to release his axe from its harness. It fell to the ground with a thump, and his back felt lighter and less burdened as he did so.

"How bad is the arrow?" Darius dared to ask Rian as he threw the supply crate to the side. He needed both arms for his axe.

"How bad is my arm?" Rian returned to him with the smile of someone who did not truly care any longer.

"Bad." Darius stated when he looked at it again- the pain must have been excruciating for the other candidate. "… You probably won't live."

"Hm. You're looking alright." Rian tilted his head so he could see the arrow shaft quivering in the rain. "… If you don't pull it out, I don't think you'll bleed out like me."

"So I just have to walk about with an arrow in my shoulder." He grunted as he reached down and picked up his axe. The weight felt welcome in his palms.

"If you can collect enough, you could pretend to be a hedge pig." Rian stated good naturedly.

They walked into the fray, literally. Seamus was on top of the painted cairn, firing his crossbow at whatever he could hit. Bodies were piling up about his feet- some were from his platoon, some were from other companies. Many things were happening all at once- and if one did not know how to keep focus and keep calm, it was quite easy to be lost in the sound of rain, screams and barely-missing projectiles and spells.

He didn't know how long they fought- they were all so very tired and so very hurt. Each and every swing of his axe dug the arrowhead deeper into his flesh, ripping his muscles apart with its barbed edges. If it wasn't for the fact that he had been tortured with worse pain, he would probably have drifted out of consciousness like Rian had- he had seen the man fall from the corner of his eye, and though he felt some measure of despondency at the other candidate's death, he felt all the more depressed by the fact that his platoon's numbers were growing fewer and fewer.

The rain had wound down to a light drizzle. The clouds had moved away. The moon was full and bright.

It seemed like forever before he noted that there were less than ten people left near the cairn, and he was very close to his limit when he realized that everyone had stopped moving. Alarmed, and thinking himself to be under some sort of hallucinatory spell, he reached over to his back and willingly took hold of the arrow, wrenching it in place. As pure agony wracked his frame and nearly drove him into the abyss, he forced himself to stay awake and to _see_. Everyone was standing still- he wondered why.

"Candidate." _Her_ voice was at his ear. He turned his head and the first thing he saw was Chief di Castellamonte's scowling face. She was so close he could see the crinkle of the lines on her face and how the moonlight reflected off her platinum hair and cold grey eyes.

He swallowed nervously, and then rubbed at his eyes, ignoring the sting of the dirt as he did so, and then blinked several times to make sure that the Chief Instructor was not just some sort of bizarre ghost.

She was still there, staring him down and scowling at him, a predatory look in her grey eyes.

Darius' axe fell to his side immediately, his closed fist hovering over his heaving chest. "Ma'm." He croaked out.

"So," Her voice was deadly flat as she reared back and regarded him with a critical glare. "Did you take the objective?"

"… I believe so, ma'm." He said lamely.

"You believe so." She practically purred at him. He followed her gaze to the cairn. Seamus was holding onto the standard with all his might, breathing heavily, his other arm mangled beyond belief. Darius saw the bodies stacked, one on top of the other, arrayed like an offering to the primeval gods.

"I believe so." He tried again, begging his voice to be strong.

She cocked her head back. He forced himself to focus, to _see_- and then he knew _why_ they had all stopped. There was a ready instructor standing next to every candidate still standing, a queer looking blade in one of their gloved hands. It looked to be a simple, black straight stiletto, but it was crawling with violent orange runes.

He looked down at the Chief's hand- she too bore the blade. He looked up at her, dared to stare at her, dared to ask the question in his mind, in a voice as small as his conscious self.

"… Chief Instructor?"

She turned her head at him, considering his transgression and smiling oh so slightly. She placed a gloved hand on his cheek, and it felt disturbingly cool against his own burning skin.

"Yes?" She asked him, as her other hand shifted upward. All around them, the other instructors had done the same- a hand on the candidate's cheek, another on the blade as it made the slow procession to rest atop the candidate's throat.

"… Did I fail?"

She stared at him almost lovingly, even brushing the grime away from his face.

"Do you trust me, candidate?" She asked him instead, and he took note that she did not say 'warrior-child' like before.

"Yes." Darius returned- he was utterly exhausted and in pain. He had been afield for two days, had shouldered the burden of command for one, and the only thing he wanted to do with all of his heart was to close his eyes and to sleep.

"What is our creed?" She whispered to him, and he had to strain his ears to hear her because he could feel himself slipping away.

"Strength above all." He replied exhaustedly, mechanically. He had memorized the creed of Boram's Point on his first day in, had run his eyes over the words until he had been absolutely certain he could recite it as he slept. "Exploit every weakness. Defeat your foes with overwhelming force. Fight to the last man. Never surrender. True warriors of Noxus will never falter- even in the face of certain death."

There was a strange, tearing feeling on his throat, followed by an intense burning pain that made his knees buckle underneath him. His scream had been heavy and hoarse, and the buried arrow howled in his back as he fell to the ground like a dead thing. He caught himself just in time as his right hand automatically went to his throat, clutching the left side of his neck where the pain was emanating from. When he pulled his hand away and looked down. All he saw was the bright red of his life, mixed with a strange flame that seemed to dance on top of his bloodied palm.

"Candidate Darius, this is your test." Chief Instructor di Castellamonte was saying as she flicked his blood off the ceremonial knife dispassionately. "This is the true Crucible. If you are strong, if you are resolute, then you will live. If you are weak, if you are uncertain, you will die. You will find strength, or die by my hand. Noxus has no need of officers who falter."

As the realization that she had just slit his throat settled in his mind, he felt nothing but utter fury. Like a wolf with a deathly serious injury, he looked up at her, his hand clasped over the cut she had done on his neck. He could feel his own pulse dripping out between his gloved fingers.

"Anger will not help you, Candidate." She said coldly- she had caught the murderous gleam in his eyes and though she seemed as if she approved of his spirit, she did not approve of the rage that had accompanied it. "It will give you temporary strength, but no more. Against the eventuality of death, you must be at peace. With peace comes focus, and with focus comes true strength against the inevitable."

Hand still clapped against the tear in his throat, he watched her warily. He did not have the energy to go against her, but he did not want to forgive her. He had done all he can, and if he was about to die by her hand, he would not go easily.

She smiled at his pitiful attempt at defiance, at the fire that somehow managed to burn in his drained eyes. "Such a fast learner, it is no surprise that they would favor you. Indeed, candidate, it is not wise to struggle, or to panic with such a wound. Bide your time. Keep your wits about you. Quiet determination breeds true strength that will never be taken from you."

"… Is this to be my end, Chief Instructor?" He managed to say.

"That," She said as she sheathed the blade and offered her hand to him. "Would be your decision."

Hand still clamped over his throat, he reached up and took her gloved hand. She pulled him to his feet, which was no easy task, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Against the screams of the muscles on his back, he tried to stop himself from falling over again as she swept her hand about the gorge.

All around them, candidates were twitching on the ground like dying flies. A few of them were being helped up by the instructors. Most were still on the ground, spraying their life all over the muddy earth.

"What… is this?" He asked her, somewhat mystified.

She pulled the high collar away from her neck, regardless of his discomfort, and he saw the long white scar across the left side of her throat fully for the first time. It was about as long as his middle finger, and about as wide as a matchstick was thin. "You see, Candidate, we are all branded as such." She declared. "The proof of our indomitable will, given form on our flesh. This is the mark of a true Noxian warrior, born here in the Crucible of Boram's Point."

He thought of his blood, pouring from his throat and into his fingers, how it was so hot when compared to the coolness of the air. She had just marked him in the same way _she_ had been marked decades ago- given a brand to show the rest of the world that his will would not easily bow down to death itself.

He felt... _content_.

"Do I have to save them?" He asked her, his throat was dry and it hurt to speak, but he pushed himself to be loud, to be strong, even if he was so close to capitulating himself.

"Do you wish to save them?" She tilted her head at him, studying him inquisitively.

He looked at the cairn, and saw Seamus twitching like a smashed roach. He would not survive.

He could not bring himself to feel _anything_.

"… No." He admitted.

"Good." She said coldly. "If they cannot overcome their fear of death, they are nothing to Noxus."

She reached around his back and took hold of the broken arrow. She pulled it out, tearing through countless muscles and blood vessels as she did so. He screamed and fell back, squirming and gasping for air, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of the water.

Panting, he stared at her with glassy eyes, as she placed a little marble slightly out of his reach, something like embers hidden in a pile of coal shining in its mysterious depths. It emitted a homely warmth, like a fire on a cold and wet day.

"Are you still afraid?" She bent down on her knees and asked him.

His eyelids were heavy but he did not want to sleep, even if it called to his very soul.

"… No." He mumbled.

"Show me you are not afraid, then. Heal yourself, candidate."

Without hesitation, he reached out and touched the glowing thing.

There was a light, calling to him; wrapping about him like his mother had held him as a child. He felt safe for the first time in many years, and when he would have once resisted, he now fell into the white light gladly.

"Welcome to the Academy." She said to him, and it was the last he heard before he gave in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Okay, I have a lot to explain here, I hope you'd give me the time.

_Why did I put in the masturbation segment? _

There's a time in everyone's life that they do this. Don't send me messages like '_o but i never masturbated ever!11 i don't need it_' because I will ignore you. I put it in because it's the baby step before sex. I didn't think it would be proper or even remotely realistic to just skip straight to the prons without going over this awkward and admittedly depressing phase of his life.

Do realize right now that he's essentially jerking off to stay awake, and his thoughts reflect that much. Dar's been busy for most of his life, and I really don't think he had the time or the energy to jerk off ever- what with Draven sharing his room and work taking some 12-16 hours of his life every day.

So _yes_. I had to put that in. Because I can't just go '_hey ninja fact- he did so and so_'.

_How many candidates died?_

My beta and I did the math together and we determined that only some 5-10 candidates survived for the cliff objective. There are 5 objectives in total. Assuming that the other objectives would have suffered the same number of casualties, we can safely say that the graduating class will only number some 25-30. Down from something like a thousand hopefuls. Not bad for the best military academy in the city-state, I guess.

It's sort of normal. I guess. We've seen their training, so the officers that graduate could be perceived as either truly and deeply psychologically disturbed or as absolutely fearless warrior generals. Knowing Noxus, they would take pride in the latter, not the former. You do what you must to be strong.


	16. Familiar and Worn Out Faces

**[FAMILIAR AND WORN OUT FACES]**

_How much further do you want to go? Refuse_

_the bossy insistence_

_of new impressions—_

_lie there still,_

_behold your own fields,_

_your estate,_

_dwelling especially_

_on the poppies,_

_unforgettable_

_because they transported the summer—_

_where did it go?_

**A Shadow on the Wall (Gottfried Benn)**

* * *

**TWO YEARS LATER...**

Noxus after the monsoons was quite a sight to behold, as the carelessness and indolence of the summer months reached even into the hearts of the most ruthless and pragmatic people in Valoran. Normally a grim culture centered on blood and the harshness of war and its realities, Noxians practically threw open their doors at the end of every horrible monsoon season. Countless street cleaners would be clearing away piles of waterlogged debris; flushers would be prying valuables from bloated bodies in storm drains. Merchants would be opening watertight crates; inspecting inventory submerged during the floods and then placing on sale what still could be sold at prices that even a poor yordle could afford.

The best times of the year to visit and to purchase wares, as is often told to the few Noxian tourists and merchants brave enough to venture into the city state willingly, would be after the monsoons and during the winter months, as the entire populace seemed to stop and to take note of everything that had occurred in order to cast away what could no longer be used.

People who had been previously forced indoors for the majority of three to four months now ran amok through the streets- sometimes literally. It was not at all uncommon to see a naked person racing through the main thoroughfare, four months' worth of laundry in their arms, an entire patrol of constables casually walking past, barely batting an eyelash. After all, it was absolutely inconceivable for a person of average and middling means to own a Zaunite laundry machine, and to expect that clothes would dry during the ferocious and extremely humid monsoon months when the braziers and fireplaces were best used to fend off the creeping chill.

It could be said that Noxians were at their most festive during the summer and winter months. Driven by the need to empty inventory, bazaars dotted the multitude of Wards. Butchers and farmers would be peddling their wares eagerly, as both the aristocratic and lower-class citizens of Noxus held their own festivities to celebrate the end of the gloomy months. Children would be running through crowds, either stealing valuables from the unwary or laughing and skipping through the cobbled streets. The gap between the rich and the poor was still so evident within Noxian society, but it was not so harsh or so bitter when the rest of the city-state was at the very heights of communal ecstasy, enjoying liberty underneath a sun whose warmth had been withheld by merciless clouds.

With the break in the clouds that heralded a wonderful summer also came the need for entertainment. Establishments closed during the storms would open again- from highborn gentlemen's clubs to seedy brothels, from plain playhouses to elaborate and highly acoustic concerto halls- Noxus as a whole shook off sullen lethargy and donned a brighter, more celebratory air.

'_Entertainment'_ and '_Noxus'_ were not words commonly associated with each other. True, the Demacians had more of a flair for city-wide celebrations, while the Ionians practically dominated the cultural stage with their elaborate dances and festivals. The Freljordians had their own customs and shamanistic dances; whereas the Zaunites took a few days off each year to get good and drunk. As far as simple pleasures went, Noxian entertainment was more visceral, instinctive, and utterly human. For the rich, there was no end to the joys of high society- erotic plays were held in the highest and most prestigious theatres alongside heartbreaking operas and raucous comedies, while the concert halls were filled with the pieces of only the best and brightest of Noxian composers.

The masses had simpler, more primitive tastes- the mindless violence of the Fleshing Arena mixed with the minute pleasures derived from cheap gin and animal fighting rings under bridges and deep inside taverns. Animal entertainment in particular was something both societies enjoyed- aristocrats owned most, if not all the horses raced within Noxus, and while they delighted sitting in the box seats and cheering for their particular steed, the less-fortunate would be milling about in off the track betting parlors, saturated in smoke and alcohol, throwing their money into faint hopes at winning, largely unaware that the book-keepers had already determined the outcome for them. Dogs, chickens, foxes would be starved and beaten, let loose to kill each other amongst the cries of frenzied men and women eager to see blood fly. The Fleshing Arena only magnified these matches- man against beast, elephants against cougars from the Kumungu Jungle, trapped by enterprising hunters.

For the most part, the Fleshing Arena was where the rich and the poor met, and when Draven had been younger he had gone to the fights to hear the crowd and imagine his name, to stare in vain at the performers and to wish that he had been in their shoes. A full three years had passed since he had last done so. A chance meeting with Emilia again, after a year of drifting aimlessly, had spurred him into furious activity.

Draven had been milling about in Ivory Ward, deciding if he should purchase more sweetmeats when there was a great noise from afar, like a thousand men cheering at once. His curiosity piqued, he decided to see what had occurred, and it was an utter surprise when he saw _her_ again. She looked not to have aged a day since their last meeting, her beauty only magnified by the striking, layered and frilled dress in wine red and deep black.

His heart had seemed to stop at that moment, his throat constricted as she turned her head, stared at him with only the faintest hints of recognition that sent his soul careening out of his body. "Boy."

"E-Emilia." His voice then felt as if it had come from a different person.

"Hello, darling boy." She had returned.

"Y-you look… uhm… very pretty." He had not been educated very well, and so the word '_pretty'_ was the only thing that came to mind. Still, like a diligent little dog, Draven had tried to say the words properly, mesmerized by her high accent and her gaze.

"And you, boy?" She had ventured, and at that moment he could hear his heart stop, could sense nothing else but her and her eyes, the slight twist of her lip, her smoky gaze and her voice- "… I see you did not rise from the squalor you were in."

He had not known what to say then, had not realized until then that he had not moved at all. She was still so radiant, intensely bright like the fire of an alcohol lantern, and he was still nothing but a fluttering moth, flapping idly through life.

He had stared at her blankly, had thought of what he could say in response, and found that there was nothing at all. He had lowered his eyes in shame, until he felt a gossamer touch on his cheek and realized she had touched him.

"Do you even wish to rise, little boy?" She asked him lowly.

"I-I want to." Draven had mumbled out, driven to answer by her touch and proximity.

"Then do so."

And like the faintest of winds, she was gone, swallowed up by the adoring crowd that followed her every move. He had been left standing in the middle of the market, his hands curled into fists, his coin purse stolen by some enterprising street urchin.

From that day on he had _worked_. He had nurtured what talent he had at juggling, created numerous tricks that his body memorized better than his mind. She was his muse, to say the very least. Her every word was a cooling balm onto a feverish wound, and he did everything he could to please her so, because he wanted nothing more than to hear her praise and to listen to her voice.

There was some strange need in him to change the way she looked at him, to have her say his name instead of just 'boy'. Like his brother had placed his Chief Instructor upon a pedestal, to mold himself into what Chief di Castellamonte had felt acceptable, Draven worshipped Emilia, but unlike his brother, who had earned the love of his goddess, Draven received nothing.

In that same year, the House of Swain was abolished, and the stipend, which had been so constant and so plentiful, suddenly disappeared. Draven knew hunger again, but his older brother was no longer present to shield him from utter desperation and gnawing pain. He had not been careful with money, even though his brother had repeated to him, over and over, to save a little of his stipend for the worst times. He had not been careful with his stores either, because he had been foolish and stupid. Driven to the worst extremes, he had temporarily run with a gang of younger boys, roving through the streets like a hungry pack of hyenas, taking advantage of what could be exploited.

As his brother had gone through the Crucible, and had obtained the scar that marked him to be strong, Draven weathered hunger, fought for dominance and survived in the most _Noxian_ way.

A disagreement on money with his pack left him alone and deprived of company, but Draven still held on to his dreams, when his brother lost his in a whirlwind of indoctrination and harsh treatment. He worked to improve his skills as a juggler, moved from juggling wooden pins to sharpened blades, from blades to swords, from swords to oil-coated batons that were set aflame in mid-air. Soon he was the talk of the Ward that he frequented. A word in the right ear and an offering of gold sent him upward from the streets into public amphitheaters, from there- the Fleshing Arena, where he had once dreamed of performing. It would have been enough, to fulfill his dream, but it was _not_ enough for _Draven_, and the blossoming ego that he grew and protected like a lioness would to her cub.

Personality, Draven learned, was something that _attracted_ people. The larger the personality, the more people would come. He forced himself to smile, to call himself by his name, to pound the syllables into the minds of others that cared to hear him. It was rather fortunate that his father had a memorable voice that he passed onto his offspring, because without it, he would not have gone far.

He took every bit of praise that people heaped on him- in Noxus it was about as rare as a rainbow during a thunderstorm- and kept it close to his chest. Criticism he learned to deflect with smooth words and smiles, and he taught himself to speak in a way that would make others remember him. He was not educated in classrooms or in the Wolf's Pit like his brother, _no_- he was educated by stealing accents from the rich, by adopting the laidback mannerisms of the poor. He reached out to both sides of Noxian culture without even comprehending what he had done.

At the end of four years then, as his brother attended the final closing ceremonies for his military education, Draven was enjoying the fruits of his labor- money, attention and _women_, of course. Women were his primary audience, and it was only a matter of time before he learned to play them well. From tavern wenches to moderately endowed merchants' daughters, he bedded them on his rise to glory- but tonight, of all nights, was his _first_ with a woman of higher class.

Her name was Cassandra de Sable, and he had seen her during his times at the Fleshing Arena, though he had never had the pleasure of knowing her name until now. He had just finished an intense show in the Arena when she had come onto him, whispering sensually in his ear, and he was only too happy to oblige.

Taking her back to his residence, the two of them had feverishly torn away at each other's clothes- somewhat literally in her case, as he had gotten overexcited when she had grasped him in her slender and manicured hands. They were each at the peak of their pleasure- she was ready to take him in, he was mounted on her, panting like a dog as he clutched at her waist and slid himself back and forth on her folds, losing himself in the sound of her eager and frantic moans- when the door opened and the once dark bedroom was covered in light.

Breathing heavily, Draven squinted up at the person on the other side of the door, and it took him a good five seconds before it registered to him that the person who had barged in, who was now standing and watching him with an impassive expression on his face as he lay on the bed naked and erect with a squirming woman underneath him was his _brother_.

Darius was _home_, after four long years. He seemed to have grown taller and stockier. The clothes he was wearing were absolutely foreign to Draven- he had grown so used to seeing his older brother walk about in ragged and patched drab clothing, but now Darius was wearing an elaborate and regal ensemble that seemed to have a category of its own.

His tailored coat was blood red, which already hinted at its cost, and looked to be made of soft and sleek material. It had an upturned collar that folded against his brother's neck, and bore black trimmed, twin rows of folded velvet green down his chest dotted with polished golden buttons. The cuffs of his coat sleeves followed the same general style: black trim, gold buttons and folded high enough to let just enough of the white ruffs of his shirt show.

Darius was wearing a vest underneath, and a black neck cloth. His white collar was turned up, and starched. His blood-striped black pants were bloused into tall boots. He wore black gloves- leather, and it looked to be lined with something soft and tailored to his hands. There was a loop of red and gold braid about his brother's shoulder, underneath gold and black shoulder epaulettes marked with a single golden bar. He bore a medal over his left breast- that of a golden mace encircled in a ring of leaves and topped with a crown that seemed to be made of thorns.

They could not afford to have their hair cut before, so Darius had often trimmed his hair when it grew too long and too troublesome. His brother had never trusted him with the scissors, however, so Darius' hair often grew on and on until he trimmed it himself- with catastrophic results. Where his hair had once been an unruly, uneven mess, now it was cut short enough so that it barely touched his ears- admittedly, the look didn't suit his brother at all. The single strand of white hair had multiplied to maybe five or seven in a little patch.

The scar that his brother had suffered before was still on his brow- it had healed, and took on the appearance of something sharp and jagged that had been left under his skin, and then painted on to stand out. There was a new scar- actually, there were several new lines on his brother's face, and the shadows had deepened underneath his eyes- but the new scar over his right jaw, reaching up until his cheekbone- it looked raw and angry, and Draven could see that it still wept blood in some places and marred his starched collar with stray drops that had hardened to a deep brown.

There was a muscle twitching on his brother's face, underneath his scarred brow as Darius cleared his throat and spoke in such a strange voice that Draven blinked several times to make sure that he wasn't just having the worst nightmare he had ever had in his life.

"Draven," His brother intoned. "When you are _quite_ finished, I would like to speak with you."

Draven had to remind himself to close his mouth as he hastily drew the covers across himself. Cassandra's mouth was in a brief 'o' of shock, but she quickly snapped her jaw shut and tilted his head at him, utterly intrigued.

For his part, his brother seemed to take _her_ nudity in complete stride. "… Good evening, miss." Darius inclined his head downward in an unmistakable sign of courtesy.

"… Good evening, lieutenant." She returned with disturbing grace- and for someone who was wearing absolutely nothing, she made it seem as if she was returning his greeting at a public event, clad in only her very best clothes.

"… I am not yet a lieutenant." His brother stated.

"You will be." She said confidently, staring at Darius in a _strange_ way- almost as if she was _pleased_ to bare herself to him.

His brother stared at her for some time before he cleared his throat and spoke again. "I will give the both of you time." He said simply. He then turned rather sharply on his heel and closed the door behind him gently.

"What the _fuck_." Draven breathed out as he shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he tried to compose himself. "What the fuck is he doing home? He was… he was in military school-"

"Ah, yes. His uniform is Boram's Point. Their officer candidates usually graduate at around this time," She told him none too gently as she clambered out of bed. Draven watched as she pulled the sheets about her buxom chest and padded around the room, gathering clothes previously thrown aside.

"He should've told me-" Draven muttered with a shake of his head as he moved out of the bed as well. "Motherfucker- that was so fucking awkward."

"I dare say he is rather eager to get home." Cassandra explained as she stared down at the sad remnants of her undergarments. "Blast it- look what you did."

"_Eager_? You mean he's not supposed to be home yet?" Draven walked over and stared at the scrap of cloth that had been her brassiere. "Fuck- sorry. I got-"

She reached up and gave him a pat on the cheek, and somehow the gesture felt less comforting and more patronizing. "They had a graduation ball today. Why you poor thing- I suppose you'll just have to purchase a new pair for me. These are made from Ionian silk."

Draven blinked at her in askance. She sighed and rolled her eyes as she dropped the torn cloth. "I shall have to bring you to Ivory Ward then, to show you- oh, no. Never you mind."

"… What?"

"Perhaps I shall take your brother instead." She ignored his words as she tapped at her chin and gazed at him. Draven felt much like a stack of meat on the butcher's block, being appraised for a value that he had absolutely no idea about. "Your brother would make a fine escort- he would not dare refuse me either."

"I'm willing!" Draven sputtered out, even as the questions increased to a disturbing and confusing buzz inside his mind. What the hell was going on? Why was she more interested in _Darius_ now? "I am!"

"Yes but- did you see the medal on his chest?" She smiled at him kindly and licked her lips. "And that build…"

"Hey! You wanted to fuck me only a few minutes ago! What fucking changed?" Draven demanded as his rage poured out into his shaking thin frame, narrowed eyes and harsh voice.

He tried not to feel cheated or deprived as he asked. "Why would you ever want to fuck _Darius_ instead of me!?"

"He's-" And she breathed out a sigh- it seemed to him that she was just itching to just go outside and fuck his brother. "Well,"

"Come on," Draven growled. "Tell me."

"Well-" She looked behind her, as if she half-expected the older sibling to open the door again. Once she was satisfied, she turned back at him. "I've heard my parents talk about him- after surviving the Crucible, he dominated the rest of the course. That medal- that was the Commander's Baton, and quite frankly, with a body like that, I'm not at all surprised. _Mhm_."

Draven tried to understand what she had told him- the Commander's Baton? That golden stick he saw earlier, pinned to his brother's silly coat?

"… _And_?" Draven asked her.

"It means he has the highest ranking in the _entire_ graduating class." She rolled her eyes at him again. "And if I remember correctly- when he gets conscripted, he'll be a lieutenant, instead of a second lieutenant."

"That's not much, is it?" Draven joked weakly. "H-hold on, how'd you know...?"

The steely and exasperated look she gave him silenced his awkward laughter.

He couldn't help but feel put out now. He had fought so hard to have her _look_ at him, had worked so many months to make her see him _alone_, and it only took his brother three minutes to take her attention away from him and she looked ready to fuck Darius _senseless_.

"Everyone who graduates from the schools get a starting rank in the military. Precisely what rank would largely depend on their performance and if they have the gold to purchase a commission." She was practically lecturing him now. "To be a lieutenant right out of the gates, _alongside_ his stellar performance? _Someone_ paid the way to see to it that your brother would only get the very _best_."

"But that doesn't really _matter_ right?" Draven tried. "I mean-"

"It does!" She recoiled from him now, walked away from him if he was made of fire. "You utter ignoramus, it does! Ugh- why did I even consent to this? How stupid!"

Draven fought against the overwhelming feelings of impotence that were rushing at him and he tried his best not to be angry at a person who had just walked back into his life after being such a central figure for most of it. It wasn't Darius' fault- they had not been in contact for a long while and after four years, he had thought his brother dead or gone-

"I'm **not** stupid," Draven's voice sounded more pitiful than he thought.

"Then stop being so stupid!" She huffed at him as she stared at him. "Look, Draven, I like you-"

"You lying bitch!"

She rolled her eyes again and he found himself curling his fists in rage. "Oh very well, I never did see you in the same fashion- I was playing with the idea of laying with someone of lesser rank. The point, _ingrate_, is that people like your brother are _made_ men, and they are far _more_ than you can possibly ever be."

"You told me yesterday that I was-"

"I was lying." She snapped. "To get you to bed. To fuck you. Now, that is something you can understand, I take it?"

White hot fury rushed through his veins now, Draven advanced towards her, his entire frame shaking like a leaf in a bitter wind. At that moment, the door opened again, and then his brother was there, bathed in light as if he were a military angel descended from the heavens.

Surprisingly, even before his brother could open his mouth to voice the inevitable question of why he was taking so long, Cassandra was running towards him, tears gathering at the edges of her eyes where there had been nothing before.

"He's trying to kill me!" She shrieked at his brother as she took folds of his uniform in her hands, ducking behind him and using Darius as a shield. "Stop him!"

Darius stared down at her, and then looked at Draven expectantly.

"She's fucking lying, Dar!" Draven snapped. "I never fucking touched her!"

Darius' stare went down to the woman clutching at his coat. Slowly, as if he was prying off some foul substance off his sleeve, he pulled her fingers off him. "That is quite enough from _you_." He rumbled. "Did you think me immoral enough to fall for you?"

As if he had just pulled the mask on her face, her fearful expression faded into one of derision. "_Immoral_." She spat. "Do you think yourself some _paragon_ of principle? How **arrogant** of you."

"My brother is **not** a toy." Darius growled lowly- and his voice twisted into something like the ominous rumblings of a distant and black cloud. "You will see yourself out at once."

"Do not presume to order _me_, lieutenant." She snarled back at him as she placed her hands on her hips, standing bare and defiant in his face. "You are **nothing** to me."

"I dare suppose your father would be… _dismayed_, if he should find out where you are tonight." Darius drawled. Draven stared at the two of them, speaking in strange haughty accents and using words that he couldn't fully understand- what the hell was going on?

"My _father_," Cassandra repeated with a disdainful laugh. "And how would _you_ know of my father, lieutenant? He does not associate himself with _your_ ilk."

"_Perhaps_ you do not know him as well as you should." Darius retorted. "**Leave**. Otherwise, I cannot guarantee that I will remain silent of your trespasses this night. I will **not** repeat myself."

"You may be the Commander's favorite," Cassandra snapped back. Dropping all pretenses of innocence, she went around the room naked, gathering her clothes from the floor. "But even _you_ do not have _that_ much influence. Be mindful of who it is you are threatening, peasant!"

"I am well aware of who I am threatening- Bohemond de Montpelier's newest _acquisition_." Darius retorted. "It would certainly be a _shame_ if _he_ heard of your… nightly exploits."

"How _dare_ you!?" She shrieked at him. "What I do- It is **not** a crime. Not in _Noxus_."

"_You_ are _fully_ aware of the standards of House of Montpelier- I hardly need to remind you of the reason why you were engaged in the first place." Darius shot back.

"_You_-" Her face was livid now, not from embarrassment, but from sheer _rage_. "How do you know that? How did you-" As a thought crossed her mind, she stared at Darius with nothing but mortification in her face. Shrieking, she fled the apartment, clad in nothing but a sheet.

Draven stared at Darius, confusion written all over his features. His brother sighed, flattened his slightly rumpled coat with a few sweeps of his gloved hands and then stared back at Draven as if he had done nothing peculiar at all.

"What did you _do_?" Draven asked, utterly baffled.

"… Oh." Darius responded. "… _Nothing_ at all, I merely reminded her of her duty as a third daughter."

"… Which is?"

Darius shrugged his shoulders. "To be _married_, of course."

"… And how is that-" Draven waved his hands about. "… How did you…"

Darius glanced at him in mild surprise- as if he had expected him to understand the situation from the onset.

"What did you _do_!?" Draven repeated.

"… When I graduated from Boram's Point, I met her father, and he implied that I could marry her, if I so wished it- otherwise she would become Bohemond's new wife." Darius offered, and he looked as if he was explaining why the sky was blue to a nine year old child. "I told him that I would inform him of my final decision once I met her. I do not think I will- her tendencies are most unpleasant. I spoke with her earlier this evening and found her character to be lacking. Soon after, I saw her leaving the ballroom with one of the senior officers –" He gestured vaguely to the unkempt bed and the sweat-stained sheets. "… Only to see her again in your bed. How _quaint_."

"… Are you saying she's a slut?" Draven asked slowly as his mind scrambled to decipher his brother's complicated words and alien accent. The second massive question bumped against his tongue and spilled out of his mouth. "There are sluts even there!? Why the hell would her father want to have her _marry_ you?"

"She is not very important, as far as her inheritance and her fathers' alliances are concerned. She is the third daughter- the first marries for love, the second for alliance… the third and the rest, to whomever their father wishes- be it a senile old man or a… promising newly minted lieutenant from the finest school in the state. _Her_ opinions matter very little." Darius tilted his head curiously at his brother. "The depressing fact of the matter is that she is well-aware of her value towards her father… for a very long period of time now, if her behavior tonight is any indication."

Draven had to blink several times as he digested the information his brother gave him. He had never suspected anything of the sort from her- was he too stupid, or too blind to see it? Or was he simply too eager to please?

"… So she's been… a slut for a very long time now?" Draven asked helplessly as he stared at Darius gloomily. "My first noble fuck and it's a manipulative cunt. What fucking luck."

Darius looked as if he had seen a dog bend over and deposit a great steaming lump of excrement in front of him at his brother's words. "… Well, if you wish to be crass… _yes_, she would be a... lady with drawbridge legs, I suppose..."

"A _what_?"

"A lady of the night, an escort for lonely men… a streetwalker," Darius waved his hand about, fanning the imaginary stench away from his face. "What men term her kind matters very little."

"… Fuck." Draven said with a disappointed sigh. "… _Shit_. I don't know... I really thought tonight was the night."

"… Yes, I can see that." Darius said with a pointed look at him. It took a few seconds for Draven to realize that he was still naked, and still somewhat aroused. Even if she did reject him, she still had been mostly naked- "I will… go and prepare something to drink. Do pull some clothes on."

"… For what?" Draven asked.

"I have been away for four years." Darius said. "Not surprisingly, I wish to talk to the brother I left behind."

Draven picked a pillow up from the floor and pulled it over his crotch. "There, we can talk now." He said with a grin. He hoped to make his brother laugh- or at least, forget about the horrible situation that had just occurred.

"… Your childish antics are hardly amusing." Darius stated with the hint of a frown in his face. "Cease desecrating that cushion at once. "

"But we're talking right now." Draven prodded further, the cheeky grin on his face growing. "If you don't want me to dese-whatever the pillow, then maybe I should just drop it?"

"How mature of you." Darius replied snidely as he left the room. "Put some clothes on."

Still hoping to irk his brother further, Draven threw the pillow back on the bed and went outside.

Darius was heating a kettle on top of the furnace when Draven entered the living room. Now that there was plenty of light in the room, he could see his brother properly for the first time in four years. At first glance, it didn't seem as if his brother had gotten any older- taller, maybe, and a bit stockier, but other than that, the differences were not immediately obvious. It wasn't until Draven moved close enough that he practically banged into the corner of the table in shock.

His brother's eyes had gotten so old- he didn't know how, but it seemed as if Darius had faced some inconceivable hell and now his eyes were nothing but dimly lit orbs. It had been a long four years, but Draven still remembered the days when he could see something in those eyes- sparks of annoyance, anger, regret, glints of determination, hope, and joy- but now, there was nothing but an impenetrable wall of darkness, and he did not know if the thing in front of him was his brother any more.

"What happened to you?" The younger boy found himself asking, in a voice that seemed to him too soft and too frightened for someone addressing an older brother.

"An education," His brother rumbled back.

His voice had changed also; now that Draven had more time to process the sound- his brother's voice had been cracking and tinged with uncertainty when he left. The person in front of him was speaking in a strange accented tone more suited for the aristocracy- with stiff lips, formal inflections and long drawls. His voice was nothing but a thundercloud overhead- ominous, harsh, boomingly distant and eerily confident.

His brother offered him a steaming mug, and it took a few minutes for Draven to fully process the idea that his brother had given him something- he had been so shocked.

Darius took a sip from his own mug, even as Draven stared down at the cup in his hands. It was tea- he had purchased some before, mostly out of curiosity. He had never acquired a taste for the stuff.

"No thanks," Draven said uncertainly. He put the cup on the table.

"Put some clothes on." Darius rumbled as he tilted his head at Draven's naked form- absentmindedly licking a small speck of black from the corner of his mouth.

Draven tried to hide the sudden onset of nervousness that gripped him- his prodding seemed like a good idea before, but now that he could see his brother properly, now that he could see just how much of a stranger the older man was in front of him- he felt quite like a boy taunting an irritable crocodile.

"Why can't you talk to me now?" Draven asked him with a forced smile, even as the scent of the drink wafted over in his direction-coffee? His brother was drinking coffee? He still remembered the days when they could hardly afford to buy bread, let alone flavored beverages.

"Because," His brother went on in that same alien and haughty tone. "You are still naked, even when I instructed you to change. I do not find your defiance amusing in the slightest."

"… But it was fine before." Draven piped back.

"It was fine," His brother pressed on. His voice and general expression never changed, and it was strange to see him control himself so, when Darius' old self would have started to snarl at him. "Because you were living alone. Now get changed."

"Or what?" Draven dared him. When they had been younger, Darius would have threatened bodily harm on him. He didn't know why, but he found himself longing to hear that response, seeking for something familiar instead of the stranger in front of him.

"I will take all of your clothes and I will put them on you," His brother's voice lowered to a frightening decibel that made Draven's gut sink. "_All_ of them."

Apparently his brother had learned new ways to torture other people. Still scrambling for a way to deal with the stranger, Draven meekly ran back into his room and found the closest pair of drawers to put on. As he moved back into the larger room, he could see that his brother had taken a seat- and again he was struck by the change.

Darius had always slouched. Now he sat as if there was a board tied to his back. His hands were neatly wrapped about the single cup of coffee, and he was still watching him so impassively- like an inspector would regard a strip of hung meat.

His brother had taken the blood red coat off, and had put away the red and gold braided rope. He was sitting as primly as one could please, with his spotless black neck cloth, immaculately starched long-sleeved white collared shirt and tailored burgundy vest. He was not wearing his black leather gloves any longer- and Draven could see the numerous new scars that crisscrossed his brother's flesh.

_How many more,_ he found himself thinking. _Do you have?_

His brother stared at him, judging his attire with half-hooded eyes and a cock of his head to the empty chair in front of him. Draven sat down and tried to emulate his brother's posture. After two minutes, he found it to be immensely exhausting, and he pulled his legs up to perch on his chair like a monkey.

Darius pursed his lip at that, but Draven persisted. After some two minutes, his brother made an exasperated noise under his breath and then pushed his coffee cup to one side.

Draven allowed himself some small measure of hope- evidently his brother had not completely disappeared.

"So," Darius stated- apparently he had finished with his silent inspection. "You seem to have survived."

Draven gaped at his older brother. "Survived? That's harsh."

"Would you rather I state that I am honestly surprised to see the apartment still whole?" His brother tilted his head at him, eyeing him with something like astonishment in his eyes.

"I'm not _that_ bad." Draven pointed out with a frown.

"_Of course_ you are." His brother said, and it took a few seconds for Draven to fully realize the tone that his brother was using- disdain.

His brother had never been so cruel before. The frown deepened on his face and made his relatively friendlier features ugly in the light of the runestone lanterns overhead.

"I'm taller now." Draven piped up defiantly. "And stronger too!"

"… You are thinner than I left you. Much of your weight I would hazard to guess is in muscle and not in fat." His brother drawled back. "…I take it you have not been eating as well as I told you to."

"I've got a job now too!" He didn't know why he felt like shouting when he said it, but he did.

"As a… street performer, I take it?" Darius tilted his head at the brightly colored clothes strewn on the floor. He seemed to be openly judging him now, and whatever it was that he found, he did not seem to like one bit.

"Hey- I don't fucking do that anymore. I work for the Fleshing Arena now." Draven insisted, prickling underneath his brother's stare. "It's a good living!"

"… And that is still hardly acceptable." Darius pointed out flatly. "…It does not change the fact that you still live off the kindness and generosity of others."

"Well-" Draven snapped irritably. "At least I'm earning money for myself. I have been for the past fucking years you were gone."

"… Given your occupation, I think you were earning sporadically." His brother retorted.

Despite all his efforts, Draven found that he could _not_ understand Darius now, could not discern the reasoning behind his voice or his attire or his _alien_ personality. The chair practically flew off as he stood up and pounded his palms on the table. Darius' coffee cup would have fallen then, but somehow his brother managed to reach out and hold it in place, all without upsetting his posture.

"What does that even mean?" Draven howled at him.

"It means 'you are not earning as much or as often as you should'." Darius said when he once would have risen to the challenge as well. Though his countenance was calm, his voice sounded strained. "_Sit down_."

"Fuck you!" Draven snarled at him. "Who the hell do you think you are to come back into my fucking life like this? What gives you the fucking right to _judge_ me? I don't know who the hell you are, but you're not my brother!"

Darius stared at him briefly, something like an emotion stirring behind the obsidian walls in his eyes. Draven's shoulders were heaving now, and his entire frame felt heated and tense. Who was this thing in front of him indeed, to judge him so quickly?

"… Very well," Darius said softly. "… I will admit, I was rather quick to judge you. I did not… _inquire_ properly."

"Fucking right you didn't." Draven snarled.

"Despite your claims, however, I assure you that I am your brother, and throwing a childish tantrum in front of me would get you nowhere." Darius weathered his rage with grace, eyeing him as if he was not angry at all, as if his display was nothing more than a bird flapping its wings at him. "Sit down so that we can converse properly."

"Fucking make me!" Draven reached underneath the table, seeking to flip it at his brother's face. The older man in front of him reached out with one hand and pressed down hard on the middle of the table- and for all his efforts, Draven found that he could not lift.

There was steel in his brother's eyes and Draven found himself quailing away from the stare, his hands falling to his sides in shock.

"Sit down," His brother rumbled ominously, and he could see the blood slowly dribbling out of the wound on his brother's jaw as he grit his teeth. "_Draven_."

"What the shit are you?" Draven asked, aghast. "What did they do to you?"

"I _learned_." His brother withdrew his hand, and he had the gall to sip at his coffee before he continued to speak. "… But I can… see that you are distressed and somewhat… upset. If you would be so kind so as to sit down, I will humor what questions you have regarding my education, and I will… _apologize_ for my previous behavior."

Draven rubbed at his face, tried to think on the exact message of his brother's words and found that he could not. "… What the flying fuck did you just say?"

"… Ask me anything you wish," And his brother slowly and carefully leaned back in his own chair- the first sign that he gave thus far of being relaxed and remotely human. "And… I am sorry, for judging you so quickly."

Draven didn't dare take his eyes away from his brother as he retrieved and placed the chair back on its feet. Slowly, he took resumed his seat, and then swallowed nervously, trying to search for something of the old Darius in those eyes.

His brother didn't even _blink_.

Draven tried to think- all the questions screaming to be voiced in his mind earlier suddenly disappeared. He didn't know what to say to Darius now that he had been given free rein, and he was afraid that his brother would suddenly snap at him in impatience if he took too long.

But Darius never did. As the seconds rushed past, he sat serenely on his chair, watching him and giving him all the time in the world to compose himself and to find the right words. Draven found himself appreciating the silence between them for the first time since his brother had returned.

The questions came back to him eventually. It did not take much longer before he chose the one he felt most relevant.

"… What happened to you?" He decided.

"Narrow it down." His brother returned.

"Narrow what…?"

"The question." Darius tapped his fingers on his coffee cup. "To ask me what happened to me- as a whole, it is too much to say. We would be sitting here for hours on end, I think. No- ask me something more specific."

"Is it true then," Draven struggled to remember what Cassandra had told him. "That they torture you to make you stronger?"

Darius did not even take his time to think.

"… It is true. Twice over in the Crucible, and for a final time during the Instigation." His brother tilted his head, and Draven could see the memories moving past his brother's cold eyes. "In the Crucible they- separated the weak from the strong- physically, mentally, emotionally. They made us face an unspeakable horror to teach us of strength and of fear. During the Instigation, they… imbued loyalty within us… to Noxus, and to High Command."

"Imbued?" Draven repeated.

"I am not permitted to tell you," His brother's voice seemed to tighten as he clenched his jaw and gritted out the final words. Blood oozed lazily out of his newest scar, running down his jaw and neck in a sluggish little stream, staining his collar further. "Nor can I- it is… it was a test that I dare not face again. I am _loyal_."

"Okay," Draven found himself raising both his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Okay, I get it. It was horrible."

"… 'Horrible' is a light word," His brother scoffed. "Do you have any other inquiries?"

"Why do you talk weird now?" Draven blurted out.

"… 'Weird'?" Darius repeated the word gingerly, as if it was a bitter thing that he didn't want to have on his tongue. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he did so. "… Define 'weird'?"

"You used to speak… I don't know, like me." Draven pointed to himself. "Not all uppity and shit."

Darius looked like he was trying his hardest not to correct him. "… 'Uppity'." He repeated again.

Draven pitied him- it was almost as if Darius was doing his hardest to relearn the words he had once used so liberally. "Uppity- yeah. You know. Snooty. _Bitchy_?"

"… Casually?" It seemed as if Darius had finally made a connection. "… Yes, I do suppose that I spoke… _casually_ before I departed."

"Now you're just being an asshole." Draven pointed out.

"I admit that my manner of speech has become more… formal now," His brother looked to be deep in thought. "But… that change was inevitable, especially given the circumstances I faced- I was surrounded by aristocrats for the most part, and given subject matters appropriate to their class."

"… Are you telling me you learned how to talk like them?"

His brother chuckled and made a vague waving gesture. "Conversing with you now, I can see how different I must be to you. But _you_ are different to me as well… you certainly went without the expletives when you were younger."

"That's a _fucking_ understatement." The words tumbled out of Draven's mouth so fast that he hardly had time to process the question. The frustration was all too clear in his voice. "As far as expel-whatevers are concerned- well, I had a rough time when you were gone. A fucking rough time."

Darius gave a sigh, and Draven saw his eyes softening for the first time in what seemed like a million years spent in isolation and caution. "I see… Regardless if I may seem… cold, harsh or uncaring, I am still your brother, Draven."

"Got a hell of a way to show it." Draven snapped back. "Interrupting my fuck, judging the shit out of me like you fucking know everything that happened- **fuck you."**

Darius looked to be testing his mouth again and grasping for patience as he responded slowly. "… Yes, well. My timing was… rather _unfortunate_. I am… relieved to see you."

"Well I'm fucking glad to see you too." Draven replied grudgingly- even if his brother seemed to have become something else- at least Darius was alive, and still looked out for him. Still, he was unquestionably harsher this time, like someone had taken him and sharpened him into something utterly inhuman.

Draven didn't know if he should be scared or concerned.

The beginnings of a smile appeared on Darius' face- and it took quite a while for Draven to see it. He had been shocked out of his skin when his brother had returned, had continued to be surprised enough that resorting to violence seemed a good idea at the time. Now he stared at his brother with some understanding in his eyes- not enough to call the thing across him as a human being, but enough to identify stirrings of emotion if and when they appeared.

Whatever had happened to his brother to have changed him so, to have taken the boy that he could always read and understand and twist him into a haughty, drawling thing- Draven could not comprehend it at all.

Darius was still staring at him with that miniscule smile- as if he had been searching in the dark for something small, and only now did he find whatever he was looking for. Perturbed, Draven found himself leaning away. The action made the smile on his brother's face grow- and though he had longed to see his brother smile again since their parents had first died, he did not like what he saw on Darius' face then. The way his brother's face moved seemed mechanical, as if he was relearning how to use his muscles again.

"I would ask you of your life thus far but I can see tonight is a… trying evening. Why don't you go to bed?" His brother said, still with that unsettling look on his face. "You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow, do you not?"

"Fuck it, saying that it's '_trying'_ is a fucking understatement again. Tomorrow? It's… it's nothing, just work." Draven mumbled out the side of his mouth as he rubbed at his face again. "That you hate. Or _despise_. Or whatever word you used. 'My little brother's a street performer'. Whatever, right?"

Darius made a noise of assent in his throat. "… I can see that I did more than distress you… Would an offer to accompany you tomorrow to your work suffice by way of apology?"

For the seemingly the nth time since he had arrived, Darius' words made Draven's jaw drop down in utter shock. "What do you me- you're going to _watch_ me work? I thought you hated it? Whatever happened to fucking putting me down? What the shit?"

"… I do not approve of your occupation, because it is unsound and highly reliant on patronage for your continued survival," Darius corrected as he lifted his coffee cup to his mouth and took a sip. "But I do not _despise_ it, if you enjoy what it is that you do. Is there some other reason why I should not watch you?"

"Aren't you… when are you…" Draven sputtered out- his brother had demeaned his occupation earlier, and now he was asking if he could come with him? "Didn't you just…I don't know… aren't you busy? With military stuff?"

Darius chuckled- and it was such an odd sound considering that he had spent so long without his brother laughing in front of him. Draven had almost forgotten what his brother sounded like when he was happy. After their parents had died, he had watched his brother's smiles fade away into something filled with loathing, had never heard his brother laugh except in a pitying fashion. That the stranger in front of him was clearly trying to regain something that had been lost for a long time- Draven found himself smiling back weakly, even as his brother spoke on in an accent that he was still trying to understand.

"The… military 'stuff'-" There was the twitch of the jaw and the roll of the tongue again as his brother found the word displeasing. "I will have you know now that I shall be at liberty for the next four weeks, after which I must report to the nearest Noxian recruitment office in order to fulfill the terms of my commission."

"… So what? That means you're _free_?" Draven's smile grew wider as he gestured out the window. The prospect of impressing his brother, of showing him the fruits of some four years of blood, sweat and tears- to say that Draven was excited was an understatement. He was absolutely elated. "You're free to watch me work? Oh man, I'm… I'm looking forward to it. I mean, I have so much to show you. I have… _wow_…"

Darius gave a nod, and the smile came on his face much easier now, less rusty and more fluid than before. "I am at liberty," His brother repeated in a corrective tone that Draven remembered more clearly. "For four weeks, Draven. You have me at your disposal before I will be given a platoon to command and deployed thence to wherever Noxus has need of me."

"_Whatever_!" Draven said with a jovial note in his voice as he stood up and sent his chair flying away again. "You're going to be watching me for four weeks!"

Darius eyed him again, and it seemed to the younger brother then that the amusement in his eyes was more genuine and less demeaning. "Ah, how the furniture survived you, I never will understand." Darius rumbled under his breath. "If you put the chair back, I may contemplate buying you dinner."

Draven nearly choked on his own spit in surprise. His brother? _Buying_ dinner? It wasn't as if his brother was an abysmal cook- Darius actually cooked better than he did and he wanted nothing more than to see if his brother's skills had improved in the interim- but they had never bought dinner together before. They had always been too poor.

Darius nearly leapt across the table in sheer joy- as it was, he threw himself at the dining table and his brother somehow managed to save both beverages with his hands and quick reactions.

"You're _buying_ dinner!?" Draven practically yelped at him like an eager pup.

For his part, his brother seemed to tolerate the display of immaturity as he stood up- mechanically again- and pushed the two cups onto a nearby counter to keep safe from his rambunctious movements. "… I shan't if you insist on maintaining this behavior."

"But you're _buying_ dinner!"

"That is hardly amusing, is it?"

"But you never buy dinner! You always cook!"

"Consider this a first- seeing as we can afford it now."

The rest of the evening passed fairly quickly- once his brother had made certain that the rest of the apartment was still in working order, he moved himself back into his room- which had been largely unused for the four years that he had been away. For his part, Draven crumpled back into bed after pushing his clothes into a corner, to be gathered up in the morning.

Only the faintest pinkish yellow streaks were in the sky outside the window when Draven smelled something in the air. Never one to rise quickly, he had to literally push himself off the floor when his attempts to wake up resulted in him crumpling onto the hardwood planks like a sack of rice. It was perhaps six in the morning, based off the brass clock on the wall that Darius had installed prior to his departure. As his nose twitched and his mind tried to process the smell, he realized he was hungry… and that the smell was something good.

Half-stumbling, half-flopping his way to the door like a brain dead fish, he leaned on the doorway for support as the rest of the information made his way to his mind. From the looks of his hair, his brother seemed to have just come from the shower, but he was wearing nothing but a black shirt- which looked to have seen better days- and a pair of black loose black pants. There was a towel slung about his shoulders as he tended to whatever it was on the stove.

"… What the flying fuck?" Draven managed to say, though his grogginess made it more like a plaintive undead moan.

"Good morning." His brother said curtly.

"What are you doing up so fucking early?" Draven mumbled as he padded over to his brother.

"… Making breakfast. Is there a problem?" Darius inquired kindly. Draven looked down at the little black pan and blinked in surprise. There, bubbling and cooking happily in its own fat, were several thick and rotund sausages. The tray by his brother's elbow indicated what else was for the first meal of the day: three eggs with unusually bright and vibrant yolks, the edges of the whites a crisp light brown; two loaves of puffy golden brown bread, a few slices of cheese and a slab of butter; half an orange, a bunch of grapes and an apple carefully sliced into eight equal pieces. A cursory glance at the nearby pot made his eyebrows shoot up- it looked something like porridge, only it was a light brown color.

"Chocolate porridge." Darius explained when Draven glanced at him in askance.

"… How the hell did you pay for all this?" Draven mumbled out. "Everything looks fucking great too. Oh man, You didn't just _sell_ yourself, did you?"

"… If you are suggesting that I turned to prostitution in order to make you breakfast, you are sorely mistaken. All of it was reasonably priced," His brother said smoothly over the pop and crackle of sizzling sausages.

"I don't fucking believe you." Draven raised an eyebrow at him as the delicious smell gradually woke him up. "It's like one gold a piece for a good two kilograms of this stuff. And _cheese_? How far did you walk? How much did you _pay_?"

"If you are awake at these hours, you would know that the butchers and the bakers start their work at this time, and that the products are all very cheap considering its quality in order to usher in customers." Darius explained as he gently pried his brother off his shoulder. "When I woke up this morning, it was a simple matter to walk to the covered market a few streets down."

"… There's a covered market there?" Draven blinked up at him as his mind struggled to negotiate the memories of that particular place with what his brother had just told him. "I thought it was like one of those animal fighting rings because it was just so fucking noisy."

"… I instructed you on its existence before I left." The side of his brother's mouth twitched, as if he was still in the process of deciding whether to smile or to frown at Draven's ignorance. After a second or two, he shook his head and carefully pushed the sausages onto a plate next to the stove. "… Well, it hardly matters now. I have returned."

Draven rubbed at his eyes as he watched his brother ladle the porridge into two bowls. "… Oh man, I don't fucking know how to deal with this shit."

His brother glanced at him over his shoulder in askance. "… You find all of this unpleasant?"

Draven shook his head. "No, no. It's just… this is a lot for breakfast. And you're cooking, of course, but stiff-like. Like a statue I guess?"

"I see you find my posture unnerving. _Well_. There is nothing I can do about _that_. As far as breakfast is concerned, we hardly had money to have something like this." Darius pointed out without hesitation. "But mother and father used to have something like this, before you were born."

"Even the cheese?" Draven's eyes widened.

"… No, that was something I felt appropriate. It was a constant while I was in military school." Darius shrugged his shoulders. "… The fruits and coffee also, but the rest… we had it every day. It was one of the few luxuries we had."

Darius placed the bowls onto the table and wiped his hands on his towel. "I have to change." His brother broached. "You may begin, if you so wish."

Draven blinked, stared down at the tray and then at his brother's face- at the old eyes and at the lazily bleeding scar on his jaw. "… Yeah, sure." He said distantly. "I'll… I'll go ahead and eat."

"… Is there a problem?" Darius probed slowly.

"… Nothing, it's just- this is a lot of fucking effort for breakfast." Draven said lamely.

"… It is nothing less than what mother used to make." Darius offered as he dabbed at his bleeding jaw with his towel. "I can see where you would be concerned and I understand the sentiment- you never had something like this."

"… I guess." Draven admitted softly.

His brother stared at him for a few moments before he shrugged his shoulders and padded off to his room.

Draven was halfway through breakfast when Darius emerged from changing. There was a bandage over the oozing scar now, and he was clad in a black waistcoat, the white collared shirt underneath buttoned up and pulled so that the starched collar curled about his neck. Draven watched him, utterly amazed as his brother tied his silken blood red cravat perfectly without even consulting a mirror or any reflective surface.

Darius noticed him soon enough, and stared at him when he settled into his seat, his black coat slung on the chair. "Yes?"

"… Nothing, I was just wondering where you had the money for those clothes of yours." Draven said around a mouth full of egg-soaked bread. "They look fucking expensive."

"There is a rather handsome monetary reward given to the candidates who obtain the Commander's Baton," Darius replied curtly. "… Though it matters very little to recipients who already possess considerable assets."

"… So the first thing you fucking bought, the moment you got out of military school, were _clothes_?" Draven asked with a raised eyebrow, the chewed up bits of his food oozing out of the corner of his mouth as he gaped at his brother in utter shock. "Aren't you just the prissy little asshole?"

"… I was hardly being narcissistic; I didn't have anything upon graduating other than my school uniforms." Darius stated around the cup of coffee that he brought to his mouth.

"You could've bought me something." Draven pointed out with a deep pout.

"You are no longer a child to be given useless tokens." Darius stated flatly. "Regardless if you were still a little boy, I would not spend hard-earned gold on something so _trivial_. Food, clothing, rent, armor and weapons- now those are more worthwhile. I take it you have been punctual?"

Draven swallowed the lump of food nervously. How could he tell his brother that he had been late on his payments before?

Fortunately for him, Darius seemed to read him like a book, sighing exasperatedly as he stared at him. "… I dare suppose it was too optimistic of me to have thought such."

"It wasn't as if I was forgetful or anything." Draven tried. "I just… I ran out of money. The allowance ran out."

"In your second year, with the dissolution of the House of Swain." Darius replied as he dipped his bread into the bright yellow yolk. "Again, it was too optimistic of me to have hoped they would keep their word. But this apartment is still within our rights, is it not?"

Draven nodded mutely.

Seemingly satisfied with his interrogation, Darius began to break his fast. Draven watched him curiously. Darius had always been a messy eater who never cared if his mouth was full or not whenever he talked, but now he ate fast and clean. There were no wasted movements; no brief moments spent savoring his meal as he had once done. He mechanically pulled apart his food with his hands or with his knife and fork, shoving food, chewing and swallowing without any real regard for the taste.

It was a great breakfast- the best Draven had in a long time- and so he had been thinking of the reasons why his brother seemed to take no delight in it when he realized that Darius probably would have eaten better in Boram's Point.

Darius ignored him then, tucking away as if there were devils on his shoulder shouting at him to finish faster. Draven lowered his head, stared down at his half-finished plate and at the telltale egg yolk stains on the collar and sleeves of his shirt. Staring at his brother, Darius didn't even have any lint on his waistcoat or even the faintest hint of a stain on his shirt.

"… You really must finish your food. It'll get cold." Darius' voice pierced through his musings. Draven forced out a smile.

"Y-yeah. I guess." He reached out and went back into eating as Darius leaned back into his chair and watched the sun's light move across the slate grey roofs. A thoughtful look on his face, his next words made Draven look up from resuming his meal.

"… I forgot to say, in the rather catastrophic beginning we had yesterday…" Darius looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, Draven could see that he was uncertain and grasping for something. "… I am…_glad_ to be home again."

Draven shoved all his food into one cheek so as to reply.

"Yeah. You're fucking home again. Welcome back. It'll be fucking great."

Darius smiled slightly- it was too small to be noticed, if one wasn't looking for it. "… Thank you."

Draven returned it with a wide, food-encrusted grin.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** This took unnecessarily long thanks to writer's block and a failed HDD, but we managed to retrieve what we could. Aaaa- anyway. I wanted to show how Darius changed from Draven's point of view, and we could see how much Draven has changed also in the way he speaks and generally behaves.

That being said, the next couple of chapters would highlight the differences between the two of them even more, and then we get to meet General du Couteau and his household. Looking forward to it.


End file.
